


fight until your knuckles bleed

by wishingwell44



Series: fight until your knuckles bleed [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Assassins & Hitmen, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flashbacks, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Alternating, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, Swearing, Undercover, Undercover Missions, Vomiting, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-07-23 06:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 45,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16153268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishingwell44/pseuds/wishingwell44
Summary: Steve leaned forward and put his hands around his neck. “How can I get someone to trust me, when it’s all built around a lie?”“I don’t know, Steve," Maria sighed. "You’re the agent.”✮After a successful operation, Steve Rogers is assigned another. This time, a deep undercover mission in order to bring The Ghost in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

It had been a little over three months since his last encounter with the Ghost and Steve Rogers was bored. The investigation, as far as Steve knew, had been put on hold. The sound of papers scanning through the printer became repetitive, and helped him fall back into his memories.

“ _Who the_ hell _is Bucky?!” Fury leaned over in his chair._

_“It’s him. It’s his voice...his eyes. I haven’t seen him in...twelve or so years,” Steve crossed his arms. He became closed off. “His dad was in the army so they moved around a lot. They were weirdly stationed in Brooklyn for a while. I lived down the street from him. Bucky and I met when he fought some bullies that were picking on me.”_

_“Picking on you? I bet you were like a linebacker when you were a kid,” Fury added._

_Steve chuckled. “Actually, I was quite small. I had a lot of health issues and was pretty much a twig. I was in an out of the hospital for tests and procedures. I still have hearing issues sometimes...I was put into this experimental procedure actually. Supposed to cure me of everything.”_

_“I guess it worked, then.”_

_“It did, but when I got out of the hospital after weeks of observations, Bucky was gone. Heard from my ma that he moved to Germany,” Steve rubbed the back of his neck.”We were in our senior year of high school. That was the last time I saw him.”_

_“Until last night.”_

_“Until last night,” Steve repeated._

_“Thank you Steve for sharing,” Steve nodded his head in thanks. “You’re relieved from work for the rest of the day. You look like shit after two glasses of wine as well. Come back tomorrow at 8am. Standard day. I’ll let you know when you’re needed again. Dismissed.”_

The sound of an old beat up file landing right beside Steve, brought him back to the present. He looked up noticing Natasha leaning against the desk, chewing a piece of gum. “Hey, space cadet, how are things going today?”

Steve leaned back in his chair and ran his hand over his face, and groaned. “I think my eyes are going to disintegrate into ash if I look at this computer screen any more. This is..what, the fortieth file I’ve scanned today into the back archives? I’ve lost count.”

“When do you finish your work today?” Natasha asked.

“Whenever box labeled,” Steve paused to swivel his chair to take a peek at the name. “A2T575100CESS is finished being scanned into the data system.”

“Catchy name,” Natasha popped another bubble of her gum. “Well, if you’re done before normal humans go to bed, Clint, Sam, and I are probably going to be sipping on drinks at The Dive, if you would like to join?”

“You all never sip drinks. The last time we went out together we literally took six shots of tequila each. I’m not doing that again.”

“It was not six shots!”

“I spent about a month and a half recovering from that night, I swear to you on my  _grave_ , Natasha.”

‘Okay, look Old Man Rogers, we will be  _sipping_  whiskey. We all chipped in for a nice bottle and Scott dropped out because he had an available night with his daughter. You in or out?”

Steve sighed. “Fine. I’m in. No tequila.”

Natasha put her hands up in protest. “I promise, no tequila.”

*

There was tequila - not  _too_ much of it but definitely enough to get Steve to leave his car at the bar and take an Lyft home. He opened his door to his empty and dark apartment. Flipping on the lights, he crashed onto his couch and groaned. 

“Fuck,”

Even in the haze of alcohol, Steve's mind drifted to work. He needed a change or at least something to keep his hands busier than just scanning files. He didn’t know if that meant pestering Nick about another case,  _anything,_ that he could get his hands on...or to even just profile some suspects. Steve pushed himself off the couch slowly, not to over exert himself in his semi-drunken state, and stripped down to his underwear before padding to his bedroom. He turned his alarms on, and pretty much fell onto his bed. 

Steve closed his eyes. The room spun slightly, and he immediately opened them back up again.  _Nope,_ Steve thought,  _not just yet._ He sat up and walked back over to his kitchen to grab a glass of water, and gulped it down. 

Filling up another he walked back to his bed, put the water on the nightstand and sat down on his bed, back flushed up against the headboard. 

Steve's room, decidedly his apartment, was disgustingly empty. He wanted someone to be there, to help him. He remembered Peggy - who was still alive, but after their last mission she transferred from the East coast and moved to California’s branch. They wrote letters every so often - she’s getting married to some guy named Daniel,  _or whatever._  He got the invitation, but respectfully declined. He wanted someone he could hold. Someone he can push into his mattress with all the love he could give, and maybe somebody he could wake up to for the rest of his life. 

Steven Grant Rogers was a hopeless romantic and he hated it. 

He closed his eyes while still sitting up, testing out whether or not he was still spinning. 

Noting that the room didn’t turn like a carousel, he tucked himself into his bed, and placed his hand across the bed where no one slept. 

*

Steve, still wearing his sunglasses walked right by Natasha in the dingy staff lounge with the largest coffee cup he could find. She leaned up against the counter as Steve stirred one sugar packet into his cup. 

“ _Why_  do I ever trust you?” Steve’s voice was groggy as though this was the first time he was speaking this morning. 

“Because you love me, Rogers,” Natasha winked before she started to walk out the kitchen.

“Like a weird adopted sibling, mind you,” Steve said back, joking of course. 

*

Steve got back to his desk and leaned in his chair. The new box of files to be scanned into the system that he left on his desk last night before he left wasn’t there. 

Facing him was a smaller box, and a typed letter. 

_You look like shit again, Rogers. I don’t think you or you hangover wants to have my booming voice with the way you’re feeling. We’re gearing up for another assignment. He’s been spotted again in DC. I think we need you to be a bit more familiar with what and who you’re dealing with this time around._

_I hope you’re ready for another mission._

_Fury._

Steve put the letter down onto his desk and stared at the cardboard box in front of him. It was old, water-stained, and dusty and had one paper stapled to the front In a bold lettering, all that was written was:

**CASE STATUS: OPEN**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve sorts out the files upon files of information given to him by Nick Fury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

Steve grabbed the box from both ends and brought it into the conference room. The floor got busy - people jogging around others mumbling “on your left” here and there so no one ended up with either a face full of papers or hot coffee down their office clothes. Sam spotted him from down the hall, and made eye contact with Steve. He quickly scribbled something with a sharpie onto his notepad before showing it proudly like a kid in art class.

**_What’s in the box?!_ **

Steve just rolled his eyes and he backed into the door to open it, and set the box down. He opened the lid to find another letter. 

_Don’t say a word about this case. Not even to Sam._

_Fury_

“Fuck,” Steve sighed loudly. He had seen this type of letter once before. 

“You okay?” Sam asked as he peaked his head into the conference room.

Steve discreetly gave himself a paper cut right before Sam came all the way into the room. He inhaled through gritted teeth and made a little show of airing out the pain. “Paper cut...or cardboard cut, rather. Fucking thing is so old but yet still give me injuries worse than glass.” Steve sucked on the cut on his finger as he started to talk again. “I mean, there are like 60 something things in here? It’s gonna be insane just  _sorting_ this shit out.”

“Better things I rather be doing with a hangover like the one I have at least. I’m grabbing more coffee...most likely another egg sandwich, you want one? Or a bandaid?” Sam quipped.

“I’m good with the bandaid,” Steve took his finger out of his mouth, “Almost healed. That egg sandwich sounds delicious though - I’ll Venmo you the cost.” 

“You got it!” Sam winked. “I’ll text you when it’s done - maybe to take a break from computer screens and dark rooms.”

“Don’t you dare turn those lights on Wilson,” Steve’s said lightly. His initial headache finally subsided after coffee and two Advils, but the underlaying headache was still there. Sam left laughing, and rolling his eyes. 

“Alright you troll. Have fun scrounging for the sun.”

Steve rolled his eyes back, before returning to the files at hand. He closed the blinds and sat down before returning to the box. Opening it up once again he was met with about fifteen thick files, all tabbed, stuck together with paperclips, and clips. 

“Alright, old school. What are you trying to teach me, Fury?”

It took Steve fifteen minutes to spread all the files across the table, and start scribbling notes in his notebook, before he got the text from Sam that his sandwich was ready. Steve sighed. This was more that he could, at least in his office alone. He told Sam everything, and having Fury denying him to release the information about this  _box_ would be stressful to lie to Sam every time he poked his head through the conference room doors. Steve leaned back into his chair, silently wishing he thought of the privacy (or lack there off in the office) before opening up the files. He begrudgingly fit each manilla folder back into the dusty box and returned it to his desk where he would take it home.

*

Shifting the box in his arms, he managed to unlock his apartment door and switch on the hall lights without fail, Steve put the box down on the kitchen counter. With dinner made and eaten and a couple beers downed, Steve reopened the files on his coffee table with a semi-coherent note taking system. He jotted down the most important facts - the big players, kingpins, dealers and contractors, with The Ghost included. Steve payed a little bit more attention to the Ghost.

Steve remembered that one night. The Ghost was there with the Senator and the Director of one of the biggest Government firms in the United States, casually eating dinner. Bucky lied of course - he stated  _business_ partners.  _Psh, the business of crime._  Steve chuckled at his own stupid joke. 

The Ghost was too relaxed to be a contracted killer that night. Maybe he was just there for shits and giggles - copping a $64 plate of a rack of lamb.

Steve saw the digital clock change over to 2am, and he groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.  He managed to write almost a full legal pad worth of notes to pay attention to, finding the link - how it was always connected to Bucky.

How it was always connected to The Ghost. 

It seemed he was at least the middle man. The Ghost was their best player in the industry. If the figure was killed  _publicly-_ which was  _rare -_ The Ghost would make sure he was seen. He knew was exactly who he was - the ones who moved the pieces, or  the one that moved the pieces when told. With these fifteen files cumulated - the subjects were the only ones  who specifically saw him.There was always one or so witness account of somebody speaking so nonchalantly about a random guy with a mask to their local paper. Somebody just walking on the roof to view the parade, or a passerby that just seemed  _slightly_  out of place right before a figure importance died or was killed. 

The Ghost was the one guy you did  _not_ want to see right after a public killing, because if you saw him,  _you_ were the threat.

What he did was ruthless. 

If it truly was the Bucky Barnes that left Brooklyn, he was definitely not the same Bucky Barnes that returned to the United States after his deployment. Steve threw his notebook into the piles of papers and ran his hands over his eyes. 

_Why was I shown this_? Steve thought. He needed to talk to Fury, but sleep was first. An 8am clock-in time still called. 

*

He washed up and changed into some thin sweatpants to wear to bed, tucked himself into the blankets, and turned off the light. The darkness enveloped the room and allowed Steve to fall easily into sleep.

“ _Buck, wait up! We have study hall I think together this semester - are you going to Ms. O’Leary’s classroom in 4C13? I think that’s right, the typeface is too small for me to make out.”_

_“Uh...” Bucky took a peak at his schedule again. “Yeah, actually. Oh, wait does that mean we get shifted schedules when we have it first and last? Right?”  
_

_“Well, since we’re juniors we have privilege so yeah. I mean I rather get my work done so...”  
_

_“We can spend more time together outside of class, you fuckin’ idiot! That’s the best part.”  
_

_“Spend more time with me?! Are you insane? Stop lying, you’re just happy you have more time to see if Lizzie Macyntire wants to make out near the Bodega on 38th and 3rd.”  
_

_Bucky went quiet. “You...found out my secret,” and then returned to his normal energy. “Have you been reading those Sherlock Holmes mysteries again?”_

_“If only my glasses weren’t broken by Abe...again, absolutely, but if you don’t want anybody to find out, please for the love of Christ at least learn to cover up those hickeys on your neck.” Steve chuckled.  
_

_“Shit, they’re that noticeable?”  
_

_“Buck, you can see them from the top of the Cyclone,” Steve started to laugh more, his wheeze from his asthma started to come in more frequently. He padded for his inhaler, and gave himself two pumps. Bucky’s hand automatically went to Steve’s shoulder to stabilize him.  
_

_“You good?”  
_

_Steve paused his walking before normalizing his breathing. “Yeah...yeah I’m good. I’m not dyin’ on you yet, Buck.”_

Steve’s eyes flew open. The alarm blasting through his phone echoed through his bedroom and the clock face on the digital set up was blinking  _5:15am_  withe the digital note attached of “Run with Sam In 30 Minutes”. Steve needed to know what this case what going to entail. If no secret note landed on his desk before 5:00pm, he would have to talk to Nick Fury himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky takes a trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.
> 
> This chapter deals with the mechanics of how Bucky/The Winter Soldier is controlled by the use of his trigger words.

_Three months prior_

After the delicious dinner at D’Abruzzio’s, Bucky’s phone went quiet. He was slightly happy to take a small break. The last contract before the dinner was brutal, even with the medication that he would take, the memories still popped up briefly here and there. It was quiet for a week, which allowed him to deep clean his clothes and apartment that settled in the northern part of Arlington. 

Bucky was eating a bowl of cereal, in the middle of the day when he got his next call. 

Which was odd. 

They never called him. 

Bucky stared at his phone until the last second when he was able to pick up. 

“Hello?” Bucky’s voice was gravely. It might have been 2pm, but it was the first time he was speaking out loud. 

“ _James! Good morning, how are you today_?”

‘Doctor Zola?”

“ _James, we have known each other...how long_?” the doctor chuckled on the other line. “ _Please, call me Arnim like all the times before_.”

“Apologies, Docto- Arnim. What is going on? Everything okay?” Bucky reached for a notepad and pen.

“ _Everythin-you think that I am calling from the office. No, no! This is a personal call. I am giving you a chance for you to go on a little vacation. Your last visit you seemed a little down. I have booked you a first-class ticket to Yekaterinburg!_ ” 

“Yekaterinburg?” Bucky immediately questioned, but something in his brain caused him to take back the question and return it with praise. “I mean, sorry - that came out wrong - Yekaterinburg, great! I don’t know if I should accept, though that is too kind.” Bucky rubbed his face with his flesh hand. 

“ _No, no. This is my treat to you. Friend to friend.”_

“Thank you.”

“ _Good, good. I will have those tickets and flight information emailed to you...right now_ ,” Bucky’s email ping floated through to his computer, “ _and enjoy the time there.”_

Bucky started to pack immediately. He pulled out his metal lockbox and sifted through the plethora of passports. Bucky couldn’t have his own name on the ticket. He did a little bit of hacking here and there and changed the name and information associated with the flight and hotel. He compared them to the name on the ticket to the passport.

Joe Crawford, man-bun extraordinaire, with flannel, horn-rimmed glasses, and everything. 

“I guess I’m bringing my camera too.”

*

Bucky settled on the plane in the weirdly plush seats, and settled in. He was provided instructions specifically  _not_  to bring any weapons, but he honestly would feel naked without one. Bucky managed to sneak it in his camera - somehow disassembling a knife and placing it into the hardware of the camera’s computer boards, and in the soft sponge of the camera case. 

He’s been this guy, Joe Crawford, before. Nature doc enthusiast with dreams of becoming National Geographic’s Next Big Thing, even if his pictures...weren’t that great. He had traveled to Thailand, Singapore, Peru, parts of the Amazon forest, and was  _this_  close to traveling down to Antartica before his Great Aunt Suzie died, and had to go back to Fresh Meadows, Queens to be there to mourn. 

The skin toned cover on his metal arm was far advanced than he ever thought when he first received it those years ago. It made his metal arm look just like his flesh one, because Joe Crawford, or any of the other guys he would impersonate didn’t really have a fully automated moving metal arm.

Bucky managed to configure the code, though - wasn’t too hard - and for each cover, he could change some of the skin maps so he had some variability. Joe Crawford had a deer head tattoo on his forearm because Joe Crawford  _would_ have one which would make those attracted to him swoon, and those who were not, roll their eyes hard and look away. 

“Sir?” the flight attendant asked to get his attention. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have zoned out,” Bucky laid on the Queens accent. 

“It’s alright,” she smiled. “Would like a drink? Coffee, tea? Something stronger?”

“Tea would be great, thank you.” Bucky answered and gave a small smile. He peaked around the cabin to see the others drinking freely, and just pausing slightly to make sure no one keeled over.

Everybody was fine. Nothing to worry about. 

Bucky still had a sense of panic, but he shoved it down, and equated it to the slight panic of flying. The flight attendant placed his tea down and he let it steep, as the plane revved up their engines and backed out of the port. Sipped his tea, until the plane took off, calm as could be. 

As soon as the plane leveled out, sleep took over Bucky. 

*

“Sir?” Bucky semi-jolted awake. He was groggy. Bucky probably needed it, the sleep in the past few days were like he was on a ship - every time a wave came he would bolt up in his bed. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Bucky looked around. The plane was empty. “Am I the last to get out?”

The flight attendant laughed. “Yes, you were passed out the entire time.”

“Must have still been jet-lagged from the last trip,” Bucky said as he stood up and opened the overhead compartment to grab his things. The flight attendant took out a card, scribbled some stuff, and placed it in his flannel pocket. 

“Well, if you’re not too jet lagged tonight, you can meet me here for a drink or two,” she winked and stood in her position at the front of the plane. Bucky smiled...or rather Joe Crawford smirked as he gathered up the rest of his bags. 

As he was walking out, the flight attendant smiled and said her usual schtick. “Thank you for flying Russian Air, rated number  **one**  in the country. We hope to see you again!” 

 “...and I hope I’ll see you tonight,” He winked and continued walking out of the gate to customs. 

Something ticked in Bucky’s brain.

*

Yekaterinburg was beautiful in a New York City type of way. He did take pictures of the streets and foliage that were around town. Capturing the nuances of people’s daily lives that he was witnessing. The first few hours out of the airport were smooth. He wasn’t really trying to find his hotel, he just wanted to relax. 

The night crept up quick. He walked along the sidewalk sales of people shouting “только  **семнадцать**  больше на продажу!” and “мы снизили цену до  **девяти** рублей” from the sides of the market tents. 

More ticking.

* 

He was a little lost, even if Bucky did not like to admit it. Bucky walked into the local cafe, that spotted a fair amount of people, sipping on coffee and tea.

“Hi...uh..pot..eryal - poterval? Otel' Siniy?”  _Lost? Hotel Blue?_

_“_ American?”

“I gotta work on my accent, huh? Anyway - can you help me? I literally do not know where this place is,” Bucky showed the barista the address.

“Ah, okay. Do you know where  **freight car**  museum is? Big  **rusted**  thing on top of tracks near train station?”

“The train station, yes! I know where that is.”

“It’s right there, about 2 eh, 2.2 kilometers down the road from it. Might want to catch cab so you don’t arrive there at  **daybreak**.” 

“Good idea. Thank you.” Bucky nodded his head and headed back out to the street to catch a cab.

_Tick._

*

‘Joe Crawford’ arrived at the hotel by nightfall. The cab was helpful -  _why did I just not ask for a cab?_ \- and got there within twenty minutes. He walked up to the front desk. 

“Hi, Crawford, reservation for one room, one bed,” Bucky placed his passport on the top of the desk.

“Ah, okay. We have another room for you, a little bigger. Other room had an issue with the...the big metal heater?” The hotel clerk was searching for the word.

“Furnace?”

“ **Furnace** , yes. Leaking onto whole floor. Situation will be  **benign** in morning, but we do not want you to fret. New, bigger room. Just for you,” the clerk smiled.

“Sure, great.” Bucky did not feel well. He had a bit of food, but that was a while ago. He just wanted to lay in bed. Probably exhausted from the airplane ride...still.

“We just want you to make you feel as though this is a  **homecoming**.” The hotel clerk printed the keycard and handed over.

He used the elevator to take his duffle that was shipped from the airport and backpack to his room. Bucky swiped in, threw his stuff on the ground and tripped over his feet, before landing on the bed an passing out, face down.

*

Arnim Zola, and two of his bodyguards, keyed themselves into James’ room. The doctor crouched down to be eye level with James. A piece of hair fell in front his face, and Zola brushed it away. 

“Breathing slow, but steady.” He hummed. “Ghost - _соблюдать.” Comply._

The Ghost’s eyes shot open, and sat up in bed. “Ready to comply,” He muttered. 

“Time for your yearly check-up,  _Ghost._ ” Arnim Zola smiled. 

_Tick_

_tick_

_tick._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wakes up from his re-conditioning from Zola.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.
> 
> Content Warning: This chapter contains themes of Memory Loss, implied altered memory, and medication side-effects. Please reference the end notes section if you would like a more detailed description.

_One month prior_

Bucky shot up in his bed. He had a massive headache, and his stomach flipped. He ran to the bathroom and made it to the toilet before all the contents of his stomach was drained.

He didn’t remember if he got in a fight or not, but his body felt like he was thrown from a window. Bucky took a closer look at his body. There were No bruises or any fractures that would indicate somebody punching him in the face. 

But, he didn’t really remember anything at all. 

Bucky walked back into his room and observed. His arm cover was strewn across the floor, but looking around the room, everything was in it’s proper place - clothes in the drawer, phone on the nightstand, plugged in. He peaked at his camera and saw that he  _had_ been taking photos... _for the past month?_

_Impossible._  

He got here yesterday. 

Panic started to rise so he called the only person who could help him through it.

Zola.

The phone rang, until what seemed like that last second.

“ _Hello?”_

_“_ Dr. Zola? Sorry to call you at,” Bucky looked at the clock. “Oh, shit. Sorry, 2am in the morning there,”

“ _No, no it’s okay. What seems to be the issue, James?_ ”

“Uhm. I can’t remember things. Like,  _a lot_ of things...I think the medication that I’ve been taking is off or having some sort of side-effect,” Bucky sighed. “But...I don’t know. I think I’m just frustrated.”

“ _Huh, I see. This could be one of the side effects. When you get back we will do a scan, maybe? It might be useful to figure what’s going on wit-”_

“ _No,_  no.” Bucky gritted. “Sorry. No. No scans. I probably needed this vacation to decompress. My job prior the the last one, it was a rough one. I guess I just needed to relax...I’m not going to remember every detail.” 

“ _I would like to at least look at your medication again. A month is very long, James_.”

“Fine, okay,” Bucky rubbed his hand over his face. “When I come back,” Bucky opened his laptop to his ticket. “Shit, tomorrow, I guess, I will give you another call to schedule a visit. Sorry I bothered you, Doctor Zola. Get some rest, please.”

“ _No, thank you James for letting me know. Have a safe flight_ ,” and the line cut off. 

*

Bucky got back into his clothes to travel once more as Joe Crawford, and headed out.

The airport was bustling, and people were already lining up to head onto the airplane marked for IAD - Washing Dulles International Airport. 

Home.

Zone 2 was called and Bucky’s ticket was scanned. He stepped onto the plane after entering the gate. He saw the flight attendant that he was with last flight.

“Welcome back, Mr. Crawford,” she smiled as she put down an empty ceramic cup down on his tray. “Coffee, tea, something stronger?”

“Just a bottled water, thank you,” Bucky shifted in his seat. 

“Absolutely,” she disappeared to get him his drink of choice. “How was your trip?” she asked as she returned.

“Unforgettable,” he smiled.

* 

_Fifteen days prior_

Bucky was sitting back in the pristine white doctor’s office waiting room. He picked up a magazine titled  _iPhone Monthly,_ and flipped through as he waited for his name to be called.

“James Barnes?” one of the nurses spoke way too loud for a waiting room with only one person.

Bucky raised his hand slightly and got up from his chair and followed the nurse into the patient room. He sat on the cold table, which he could feel through his jeans.

 “Knock, knock! How’s my favorite patient, James?” Dr. Zola, with his white coat, opened up the door

“Doin’ just as shitty as the last time we spoke,” Bucky sighed. “Doc’, uh, little stuff is coming back to me since...then. Parties. Long walks in the park. I saw that church I guess, and my photos weren’t half bad, but it’s still too spaced out.”

“Glad you’re remembering.” Zola jotted down some words. “Do you know the milligrams for your medication?” 

“375 miligrams.”

“How is your arm? The metal one.”

“Well, my shoulder doesn’t hurt as much as before. Guess I stretched it out, and put enough topical to ease the pain.”

“How long did it take to recover at least some of the memories from your trip?”

“Total or day by day?”

“Total, each one.”

“Per memory, 2 and a half days,” Bucky scratched the back of his neck.

The questions came to a stop. Zola flipped through each page and scanned them each shortly. Five minutes had passed before Zola spoke again. 

“So, we’re actually not going to do anything with your medication.” Bucky opened his mouth to argue, “It is fine, James. It could have been a side effect the pharmaceutical company doesn’t know of. This is why you’re in this study, for free I might add. All in all, though we can’t be too sure since you don’t want to do any other scans or any other tests - which is completely understandable.” Zola swiveled his chair to face James. “Just relax for the next few days. You said you had a intense job the last time, yes?” Zola’s accent thickened.

“Yeah, uh,” Bucky sighed to come up with something quick. “Watched a guy die by steel pole on site.”

“Ouch,” Zola’s face reduced into anguish. “That would definitely cause some sort of pain on your part.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re on overload. Russia must have just been the tipping point, with all that went on. Things will be okay. I promise.”

Bucky pursed his lips, and sighed. “Thanks Doc. Oh, and I never thanked you for the tickets to Yekaterinburg - my memory might be shit, but I guess I had a good time.”

“Anything, for my favorite patient,” Zola smiled and closed his file.

Bucky made his next appointment, and headed out the door. Walking to his car his phone buzzed.

**You’re needed.**

When and where? Light duty, or are we bringing in the basics.

**Standard arms operation. Midwest. File will be left in mailbox. Once the bird flies, transfer will be complete.**

How long?

**You have five days at the start.**

I can have it done in four.

_Tick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wakes from the re-conditioning with no memory of the past month or so. His body is in pain due to the Cannon-Typical violence that The Winter Soldier had endured, but that is implied. Zola and Bucky talk about medication and side-effects on the phone and face to face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve talkes to Fury to get a straight answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

Steve’s leg bounced all day in slight anxiety, as he waited for something - a note, a sign - but to Steve’s disappointment nothing turned up. He was getting fed up.

Steve kept an eye on his watch, right up until the hands moved towards 5pm sharp. He grabbed his bag, and headed straight to Fury’s office,  maneuvering his way through the maze that was Headquarters.  

Maria Hill, Fury’s second in command and the acting FBI director, walked passed him, in a slight hurry - however that was always her pace - until she paused at the end of the hallway.

“Oh, Steve - how are you?” Maria pivoted on the pads of her feet,  “I haven’t seen you since the mid-August company bar-b-q.”

“I’m good, good. Just a little antsy about just some stuff going on, I guess,” Steve said as he adjusted his messenger bag.

“Date? Parents coming into town?” Maria chuckled, “The last time my parents came to D.C. I took them down to The Dabney and they liked it, it was fine and good, but the next day they literally went to this hot dog stand and could not stop raving about it. The Dabney!” Maria rolled her eyes, “I swear I almost screamed into a pillow for a straight hour.” 

“Well, neither. I haven’t had a date in a year and a half, and my parents are resting peacefully in Brooklyn so,” Steve shrugged and let the sentence die on it’s own, “I have to talk to Fury about a case, so I’m a bit antsy about that. Is he in his office?”

“Yeah, yeah, Stark is in there though, so he might be a while,” Maria shrugged back. “Well, if you ever have a date, or your parents come down to DC - I’m telling you The Dabney is the place to go.”

“Well, considering my parents are resting at Holy Cross Cemetery, it might be a bit difficult,” Steve’s tone was light, with no anger - only informative, “but if I ever meet someone, I’ll be sure to bring them to the restaurant,” Steve smiled.  

“Well, that’s the last time I tell The Dabney story to anyone at all,” Maria muttered. “Good luck talking to Nick today, he’s a bit tense today. Stark is talking himself out another situation.” 

“Thanks for the warning. Talk to you later Maria,” Steve smiled and continued walking to Fury’s office. He heard Tony Stark’s voice from as soon as he turned the corner but  Fury’s door was closed.

Fury had a list of rules and respecting them was key to a long lasting job. That didn't mean he had to come back another day, but it meant that even though the door was closed, he could still sit behind it wait until the other employee finished polishing his ego. 

“. _..why not use my design? It’s flawless.”_

_“Flawless? Stark, do I have to remind you that your tech splintered and caused three representatives from the Zambian government to have near heart attacks?”_

_“Flawless for a prototype - you’re buying the idea and then I come up with the rest. We live and we learn, Nick. This is why were such a great team_.” Tony opened up the door to leave.

“Fix your shit, before I have you paying for our electric bill, Stark. We’re not a team, I am  _technically_  your boss,” Nick Fury’s voice was stern.

“I can use my Arc reactor technology from New York, if that’s what your thinking? Have it light up the place? Might be cheaper than using the tax payer’s dollars or something.”

“I want those plans fixed by next week, got it?” Fury demanded. 

“Already have six ideas,” Tony sighed. “Say hi to the Mrs. from me,” Tony winked and turned around to leave. “Ah, look who’s here. Captain tight-ass. How are ya Steve?” 

“Dandy,” was all that Steve could offer and Tony Stark left the office, barely replying. Steve closed the door, and sat down. “How is he the head of the forensic tech devision again?”

“Not everyone that is bubbly and nice gets to be ahead in life. Sometimes you have to be a little bit egotistical to get where you need to be," Nick organized the papers on his desk, "What brings you here Rogers?” Fury crossed his arms on his desk and leaned forward.

Steve sighed. “I got your box and your letters,” he pulled out his notepad. “Is this what you’re looking for? A connection?” 

Fury grabbed the note pad and flipped through it silently. It took about five minutes to have him scan though the pages. “It didn’t want to tell you, yet, but since you’re probably going to visit my office every Goddamn day you don’t get an answer, I can start with the preliminary details at least.”

Steve placed his messenger bag to the side of him. This was not going to be a five minute visit as he hoped. Fury fished for a small manilla folder, with the words ‘classified’ stamped on top. Sometimes, Steve felt like his life as an agent was over the top and ridiculous, especially times like now when he is handed a classified folder by the head of the United States FBI.

“It wont start for another month or so. There’s been another lead on The Ghost. He was spotted in the mid-west about 10 days ago,” Fury placed a graphic photo of a bloody corpse in front of Steve. Shot right through the head, dead center. “That man wasn’t some next-door-neighbor bullshit. He had a criminal record about ten feet high. A lawyer who did some back trading in Meth. Caught twice, served five years each for both. Was disbarred for his first offense. Our field investigative team found out some more information though. The lawyer, was skimming the top off of every trade and reselling for his own profit. Guy made back his original salary of a semi-tenured lawyer.” Fury leaned back in his chair as Steve looked through the folder.

“So, lawyer gets shot because he’s skimming drugs and making a profit. Drug lords get pissed, somebody calls The Ghost, lawyer becomes dead,” Steve re-explained the case. 

“Essentially yes.”

“So, where do I come in? Why me?”

“Because you have experience,” Fury offered. 

“Experience meaning?”

“Deep undercover missions.”

*


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission parameters are decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

“ _You do not have to answer or say yes right now. Just...just look at the mission parameters, goals, whatever you have to do. Sleep on it, Rogers. You know where to find me,” Fury handed him the folder to keep._

Steve stared at his ceiling fan for hours since he got back to his apartment, with the last words of Fury going through his mind. He didn’t want to touch the file folder just yet. These missions were dangerous to say the least. You got lost in your mind and in your role to try and please the others.  In his last mission, he got caught up so much in his role it put him in a coma. He didn’t want to see people die, and he could only think of the one thing that could save others - to sacrifice himself. 

He could call himself a martyr, but at 12:26am on a Thursday night, he was just too tired.

Steve hadn’t touched the folder in hours after being handed to him, and if he was to make a decision, he would have to at least know what he would have to do.

**MISSION PARAMETERS:**

Case Objective: Bring in The Ghost

Dead or Alive: Alive

Time Allotted: Undetermined.

In hasty scribble, Fury wrote ‘ _At least try before I die.’_

Identity:                                

The section was blank. Usually Fury would give an assignment - who they are, a packet of legal documents - birth record, passport, schooling degrees (and would always throw in an elementary school promotional degree for jokes) - which would shape the identity.

“Another one of your tests,” Steve mumbled. He could choose the surgeon from California again, but that was a high risk of re-identification. Bucky had noticed, albeit briefly, who he was. This identity had to be more.. _.rough? Quick to the punch?_

“Why am I making this so complicated?” Steve sighed aloud. It was never this difficult to figure out who he had to be. He remembers that he has to make sure the lie works, but keep certain things true as to not lose himself. 

So - 

Name variations. No ‘v’. _Stephen_. Still could respond to someone calling his name, but yet  _just_ different enough to separate it from his own. He wasn’t too sure on the last name. It had to be in and of itself - something a  _little_  bit out of the ordinary, yet still being very much so all the same. 

Turner. 

_Stephen Turner._

Steve started to scribble down notes. From the name came the job ( _Artist?_   Steve thought. He was always good at art. Worked with his hands a lot at his community college and loved it. Sculpting was his favorite...which could also give the excuse of not rushing to work every day), then the appearance. 

_Artist._  

Flannel? Sure, but he wouldn’t go the hipster route. More of the 'I have worn this shirt for five years, and it  _never_  goes out of style' feel. 

“Why not throw in a beard, for God-sake,” Steve rolled his eyes at his own cover. It was horrible - way too over the top, cliche, and as much as Steve hated it, it was probably the only thing that would work to gain Bucky’s trust. 

To gain The Ghost’s trust.

*

Steve scanned another page of the old case files from the records department the next day. More busy work, that was also disguised as procrastination in seeing Fury. Steve leaned back in his chair, and sighed. 

“Coffee?” a familiar voice took him out of his zoned out state.

“Black coffee, one sugar?” Steve asked Sam.

“You know it,” Sam smiled. “What’s up? You seem troubled Rogers,” he leaned on his desk.

“Just...I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell with the insane bags under your eyes,” Sam laid on the sarcasm.

“Before you start asking me deeply personal questions, it’s mostly from work. Mostly.”

“Then maybe you should take a break Steve. Look, I’ve only known you since you woke up from the deep freeze,” Sam continued, ignoring Steve’s eye-roll, “but ever since the last mission you’ve been vibrating out of your skin,” Sam took another sit of his coffee. “Maybe you need a break - a vacation that maybe didn’t involve just staying in your house watching the same tv series again.”

“You still have time to be a therapist, right?” Steve took another sip of his coffee.

“Did you forget that profiling and psychoanalyzing people is part of the job description?” Sam chuckled. “Maybe you have to get back to the things that make you happy. What makes you happy?”

“I...I don’t know,” Steve said earnestly.

*

Steve gripped onto the file folder as he knocked onto the office door. He waited until he heard a muffled “Come in.” Steve opened the door to find a busy Nicky Fury signing miscellaneous documents. 

“Rogers, how can I help you?” Fury asked not even looking up. Steve opened his mouth to ask a question but Fury beat him to the punch. “Before you ask, you’re the only one who knocks.”

Steve sat down, and threw the file folder on Fury’s desk. The director pushed the documents to the side, and opened up the folder to see the parameters.

“An artist?” Fury cocked an eyebrow. 

“Lowers the cost than being a surgeon, I guess.”

“Are you ready?”

“I think so,” Steve smirked. “I accept the mission.”

“One month. We’ll get a better idea where the Ghost is. Maybe grow a beard,” Fury, gave a hand out to shake, and Steve accepted. “Welcome back, Rogers.”

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky remembers his first visit with Dr. Zola, and learns of somebody moving in next door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

Bucky had been sleeping more than usual after his latest job. He blamed it on jet lag from Russia, even though it had been practically a month, and had more than enough time to sleep. However, when Bucky would wake up, he would just lay in bed looking up in the ceiling, not getting out for hours at a time until his body screamed for food, water, or scalding hot shower that needed to burn his skin.

It was rough missions, the ones where he saw the body - where he saw the blood pooling around their faces, seeping into their clothes - all because Bucky accepted a job, all because of  _him_ , which caused him to become this catatonic mess. 

_It’s hard to justify a killing when you’re the one doing it,_ Bucky's thoughts screamed in his head.

In the middle of nowhere, USA,  he managed to shack up in a run down motel. Usually the jobs are one or two days max, where he barely sleeps on a slab of hard concrete, using his weapons duffle bag as a makeshift pillow. 

Stalk, observe, kill. Obtain and return. 5 days. Those were the objectives, and as promised he completed it in four. 

In the motel, after proof was sent of his completed job, his stomach retched, and Bucky ran for the toilet yet again. He hugged onto it, as not only did the vomit burned his esophagus as the bile rose up, but the memories of doing the same in Russia burned his memories as well. Pained screams echoed from the bowl, and gripping he gripped the porcelain tighter even thought it was cracking underneath his metal arm.

It took him 2 hours to get up from the floor, to wash his DNA out of the whole room, pack up and disappear out the window.

He called his only hope line - Zola - but that only resulted in exasperated sighs and the same old message:  _You have to take you medicine regularly, especially when it gets bad._

As his memories floated in his head, Bucky got out of the scalding shower, his skin flushed pink from the heat, and wiped away the steam that accumulated on his mirror. He faced himself as long as he could before opening the cabinet, and taking his medication.

*

_Eight Years Ago_

_“_ Uh...hi. My name is James Barnes, and I’m checking in to see Doctor," Bucky looked down at the scribbled name that the VA secretary gave him, "...Zola?”

“3:15 correct?” the medical assistant asked, and after Bucky gave a hum of approval, she clicked some buttons and typed in a lot more words than was probably needed. “Great, you can sit down anywhere, and we’ll call your name when Doctor Zola is ready to see you.”

Bucky gave a tight smile and walked over to the empty chair. As soon as he sat down, he rubbed his shoulder with his flesh hand. The sensations were all new. It had been maybe half a year, but with the multiple sessions with each government issued physical therapist,  occupational therapist, or the incredibly egotistical and annoying bio-med tech that helped build the arm, he was making good progress.

He had to keep reminding himself that the progress was good though, physically speaking it was good progress on the arm. When he would  pick up items and feeling the sensations again to the limits that his metal arm allowed. However, every time his old doctor praised him for his strides, even on a level he cold not control it was still hard to believe. Schmidt would always say “ _You’re making incredible progress, James. Truly. I really don’t remember the last patient that has been healing this fast.”_   after looking at his EEG.

Bucky would respond “ _Is it supposed to be this painful?”_  but would never get an answer. 

“Barnes, James?” The medical assistant voice took him out of his memories. The table was still warm from the previous patient that sat in his exact spot. The assistant took his basic vitals from blood pressure to oxygen levels in his blood. A shorter, older man with round glasses stepped into the room, lightly tapping the door which seemed more like a imitation of a knock than a real one. 

“Hello,” he looked down onto the file, “James. I’m Doctor Zola. I will be taking care of you,” Doctor Zola gave a small smile. “So, what brings you here today? I am told you are a referral from the VA?” 

“Yes,” it was a terse response, but mostly from nerves.

“Well, thank you from your service. Most records, that weren’t blacked out from your time working with the medical team, have been transferred, so no reasons to reiterate anything you don’t want to. I have a  _strong_  patient-doctor confidentiality that goes past HIPPA. It’s just you and me, James,” He adjusted his coat in his seat. “So, what brings you here?”

“I’m...I’m..uh..having a really difficult time re-adjusting to civilian life. My original primary said that he knew you were involved with some experimental trials, and well, I’m not really swimming in cash,” Bucky grumbled. 

“Therapy didn’t work?”

“No,” 

“Regular medications?”

“I have issues with Xanax, and barely take Advil. Doesn’t make me feel human.”

“...so why sign up for a medical trial?”

“Because I want to sleep. I just want to sleep. I read up a lot about this drug trail. One of the other doctors gave me a website to read about it, and it sounds right up my alley.”

“Who was this other doctor?”

“Doctor Johann Schmidt.”

“Ah, a good friend,” Zola adjusted his glasses. “Okay, enough with the questions. I have a few tests, and then a blood test that needs to be done.” 

Bucky’s anxiety spiked high. “I’m not good with needles.”

“No one is. Unless you use other forms of substances?”

“Only pot.”

“Okay, only one blood test at the end of the visit. My assistant will be doing that, if it makes you any more comfortable.”

“Sure.”

“Let’s begin then - we will be reading a list of words,” Zola said as he handed him a sheet of paper. 

“What is this for?”

“If I told you, that would ruin the test.”

Bucky did all the harmless tasks that Zola asked him to do. There were a lot or motor function tests, which was frustrating as this was the same thing he did at the physical rehab site. When it came time for the blood test, Bucky shut his eyes, as the flashback from all the time he spent in the hospital like a lab rat came rushing back to him. 

“Alright, Mr. Barnes. You’re all set. Doctor Zola will give you a call if you have been chosen as a candidate,” The medical assistant smiled. Bucky gave a tense smile in return. 

“Thanks.”

Night came quickly, and Bucky was tangled in his sheets tossing and turning. It was one of his more realistic nightmares. People entering his place. Taking him. Inflecting pain as a response. 

He woke up from that nightmare covered in sweat and on the floor, with his foot wrapped around in his duvet. 

He got a buzz from his phone, and from a number he wasn’t aware of. Bucky readjusted himself back onto his bed before opening up the messages.

**You have a certain skill that needs to be used. You can be paid well. Very well.**

_who is this? u have the wrong number._

_ur gonna have to be more specific because i'm not accepting jobs from random people_

**Not of importance. Text this number if you want to be paid for your skill.**

“Whatever.” 

It was around 2am when Bucky, turned over in his bed, and looked at those weird texts. It felt like someone he knew, but of no importance. He did need the money as disability wasn’t enough for even living for five days. Bucky copied the number in his phone and sent the text to the person.

_i got ur number from somebody else. they told me to talk to you for a job._

**welcome. a file will be dropped off at your apartment. no questions.**

_understood_.

**call this a trial run. transfer will be initiated when the job is complete. you have one week.**

Bucky didn’t think twice. He accepted. It was a strange feeling. He thought he would feel strange that some random person that probably had been stalking him, keeping tabs on him, and that somebody, probably from the VA, was giving out his information for hire with his skills from the Army.

Bucky slept for the first time in years. He woke up from the sound of his cell phone.

“Hello?” Bucky mumbled, and immediately yawned.

_“Good afternoon, James._ ” It was Doctor Zola’s voice. 

Bucky peeked at his watch. 1pm.  _Shit_. “Good afternoon. What, uh seems to be going on?”

“Everything is going completely fine, James. I just want you to know you are the perfect candidate for the drug trial. I sent out the first set of pills for a month. Just follow the directions that are given, and take the first one in seven days.”

“Will do, thank you Doctor.”

*

_Present Day_  

Bucky had been disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling his whole artillery in his apartment. He zoned out for...two hours according to his watch, which was generally normal in his aftermath for a mission. Usually a sound from his phone, or a screeching honk from a car would take him out of his memories, but today the muffled talking happened right outside his door, brought Bucky back into the present. He disassembled his most recent gun that he put together and quietly put in back in his safe.

Bucky looked into the peephole and saw a woman with brown hair, jogging suit, and one airpod still in her ears talking to the building’s landlord. They shook hands, and she put her earphones back in before walking away. Bucky opened up the door to make it look like he had every intention of not running in to the building manager. 

“Oh, Mr. Barnes,” The landlord said as he locked the key in the safety box. “How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Ah, business as usual. It has me all over the country these days. Good thing my points rack up fast,” he gave intentional nervous laughter. “I was just about to head to the store. You?”

“Well, well. Just had a short, impromptu tour for this place here," he pointed to the door across from Bucky's. "I feel like it’s been on the market for  _eons_. Hopefully an offer comes through. Apparently he’s some big time artist,” he shrugged.

“Any names?”

“No, nothing yet. She was pretty confidential.”

“Let me know when you find out, I’d like to know,” Bucky put on a smile.  _And maybe do some background research, so I don’t end up like one of my clients,_ Bucky thought. 

“Sure, sure. Let me not hold you up, and I will follow you out. I better get going, the missus is making my favorite dish tonight,” the landlord smiled. 

“Enjoy,” Bucky said softly as he held the door for the landlord, and guessed he was heading outside for a walk, thinking he could go for a good cup of coffee.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve calls an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel

*****

Steve opened up his closet and sifted through the various boxes that he had accumulated throughout the years, only to reach his college memoirs. He held the box in his hands, remembering that it was a lot smaller than he thought. In it were a few folded and discarded canvases that had started to crack from years of disregard. It had felt like decades since he painted, and he had barely even set a pencil to paper to sketch.

The thought of returning gave him some anxiety.  

The last time he held the sketchbook was during his second year at Kingsborough Community. He decided to not go to art school immediately, and work his hardest at the school to earn his way to the program since it was expensive. He wanted the scholarships and accolades, not because of merit, but he couldn't afford to go without any other help.

Halfway through his first semester, his mother became very sick. Steve started to turn his attention to his work and his mom’s health. Artwork piled up and papers were scattered. Steve's mom, Sarah, became agitated always telling him to "Do what your heart says" or "Don't worry about me", and Steve would hear "Just apply," from the other side of the house at times of sadness.  During her time fighting, there was a moment of ease - the doctors said that she was in remission. 

Time went by, slowly and easily, everyone close to Sarah put it back in their mind that the fight was over and life was to be celebrated more. Later that year, in the dead of winter, it came back hard. The doctors had said if Sarah went through a few aggressive rounds, sure, more progress could be made.

Sarah, in the office with Steve and her husband by her side, politely declined to further her treatment.

May was not a good month. Her ashes were spread down by the docks at Coney Island where she took Steve as a child to play after his own visits. A happier time, where worry rarely escaped. 

June, his Dad died. Doctors said heart attack, but he had heard of some people's partners dying of a broken heart. 

Steve gathered up the grants, financial aid that was available to have and picked up an extra part time job to help pay for the classes and supplies, and on a whim applied to the art program that he always wanted to attend. Steve was accepted to NYU, but after thinking about how it would truly shape his life, denied acceptance. Steve stayed back and changed course. He continued at Kingsborough Community, and took more psychology courses, business courses, and started to shape what his future should be. There was a time he tried to enlist in the army and he might have been healthier, taller, and stronger but at heart he still felt like he was a 5'6″ skinny guy with glasses, and a long list of medical problems. That was how the army still saw him, even with a clean bill issued by his doctor. It was a risk, they said.

They always said it was a risk.

Steve turned 24 working 3 jobs, and taking care of the finances left behind by both his mom and dad. He had two associate degrees both in psychology and a partially finished art degree, with nothing to do, and nowhere to be, and decided to move to D.C.

The ripped canvases were the last thing that he had of his old self - the kid from Brooklyn. He put down the canvases and shoved the box back into the closet, not before picking up a unopened sketch book that never saw the light of day out of plastic. 

Taking the book and a pencil, he sat on his bed and started sketching what felt like the first time in forever. 

*

Steve was in a lot of meetings, too many to count. They were all about the movements of The Ghost and his latest assassination attempt - single bullet hole through a plexiglass window thirty five stories up. The only way to have that be a kill shot was if the shooter was either in the other building 7 miles away, or if he managed to shoot from the side, having the bullet catch wind, turn and still have enough force to go through the plexiglass and pierce through the victim’s eye. 

“Am I at risk of dying?” Steve said allowed, during a lapse of quietness.

“There’s always an assumed risk with any mission,” a random agent interjected.

“You can back out, Rogers. It’s not a bad thing, if you’re having second thoughts.”

“I’m not,” Steve said a little too forcefully. “I’m not - it’s...what if he realizes that it’s a sting? It’s all just some rouse. I’m not this artist. I’m an agent, and he has literally killed an undefined number of people.”

“It’s an assumed risk,” Fury restated. “Are you willing to take that assumed risk? Or are we backing out? I can put Romanoff easily on this team. She’s just as good, if not better.”

Steve was quiet, and put his head in his hand, and signed deeply. ‘No, no. Understood, Director.”

“You have every right to be scared, but he and whoever his behind this has gone too far with the whole killing thing. We have to bring him in.”

*

Steve scrolled through his phone. It had been fifteen days since his last meeting with the agents attached to the case and directing officers that would be helping to lead the case. He had been getting jokes thrown around with his beard that he had been growing out, being called “Mr. Lumberjack” with Steve retorting that it was  _one time he was cutting wood with an axe because it seemed cool._

Back at his apartment he had been sketching again - simple stuff - but it was more therapeutic. He would draw scenes of people walking in the park, at the cafe, or even at work. He had to surrender most of his first drawings to some of the agents involved in the background work - Making articles, websites, and instagrams, with even back dating them a few years so his fame wouldn’t be half a month old. Steve was able to save them, though, and frame them for his eventual new place. Original Stephen Turner drawings all around - not in vain, but in pride.

The past two weeks were a flurry. People were coming in and out on the regular, until his apartment was empty. He didn’t know how long this case would take. He managed to find a storage unit big enough to hold his clothes, utilities, and personal items until he got back. He wanted to make sure that this was something he could come back to and never leave it again. He couldn't afford another place as good as this in the area near Headquarters.

He couldn't afford to risk his own life. Steve Rogers would become silent, though, like he died all that time ago and as far as anyone knew starting from his first day on the job, Steven Grant Rogers at the age of 17 had died in Mount Sinai hospital, in Room 527B due to cardiac failure.

Steve ended up in his contacts surrounding the letter P. He looked at the clock. 10pm and Peggy’s time difference put her around 7. He took a deep breath, clicked her name and hoped for a voicemail.

“ _Hello?”_ Her soft voice echoed through the receiver. “ _Steve?”_

_“_ Hey Peggy, long time since we've spoken.” 

“ _Steven Rogers, my god it’s been ages. How are you? Isn’t past your bedtime in D.C.? You’re still in D.C. right?”_

_“_ Yes, I’m still here. Still working for the agency _.”_

_“Good for you.”_

_“_ How’s everything in California? How’s your husband? _”_

_‘Wonderful, actually. Thank you for asking. We’re expecting,”_ she let out a little laugh. 

_“_ Wow, congrats! You will be a wonderful mother, Pegs,” Steve accidentally slipped his nickname for her out, but it didn’t seem like she minded.

_“Thank you, Steve. Now, stop shifting the conversation to me, how are you?”_

_“_ Busy, actually. They have me scanning every goddamn file in the archive for data re-entry. _”_

_“Very, very important work,”_ Peggy laughed. The laugh that made his face melt into a smile.  _In another life_ , Steve thought. “ _However, I do know your tone of voice, something other than just data entry is bugging you. You’re a horrible liar.”_

_“_ Sometimes I don’t even know how I was placed into their undercover division,”

“ _You’re still there?”_

_“_ Somehow. Took them a while to put me back on.”

“ _Are you going back into the field?”_

_“_ I don’t know if I’m even supposed to say. They haven’t even given me the green light to talk to some of the work friends about it.”

“ _So, back out into the field then?_  " Peggy paused, _"If it’s so, then they’re lucky to have you...”_ There was laughter in her voice, but it was a true statement. They continued their conversation for a little while longer, getting on subjects of weather and the lives of others before the conversation came to a natural close.

“Thanks, Peggy.”

“ _For what?"_ she sounded confused.

"For just...listening. You always had a knack for that. It's why you were so good on the force."

" _Oh please,"_ Steve could hear her blush through the phone. " _You’re welcome, and good luck. You’ll do fine. Just don’t try and...well, you know,"_  Peggy went silent for a few seconds, _"I want you on the first plane out here so you can meet everyone. They’ve heard so much.”_

_“_ I’ll put it on my calendar, so right when debriefing ends, I’ll buy a ticket out there. You have my word.”

“ _It’s a date,”_ Peggy had that smiling voice again.

“I’ll let you get back to whatever I interrupted. Thank you again, Peggy.”

“ _Oh, don’t fuss. You’re welcome Steve. Be safe.”_

_“_ Will do. Signing off,” Steve tapped the button to close the call and fell back on his bed. 

_I really dragged myself into this one, didn't I?_ , Steve thought as he stared at the ceiling at nothing in particular.

*


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

“Why am I not letting Natasha, or Sam, or even Clint in on this?” Steve questioned as he loosened his tie and sat down in Maria's office.

She cocked an eyebrow, as she leaned back in her chair. "Well, good afternoon to you too, Rogers," Maria pinched the bridge of her nose, "Because we are about to investigate an international assassin.”

“Seriously, no backup?”

“None. Rogers, we went over this already,” Maria sighed. “If The Ghost finds out that he is being tracked, watched, whatever and he or his crew marks  _you?_  The Ghost won’t kill you first. He will break you down. He will kill the people closest to you. He will go to them first. We don't want to lose anyone on this case. We can't have more casualties than none.” 

Every time Steve revisited this case in his mind, the anxiety crept up. This was a case he was going at it solo. No co-agents, no comm devices. It was like he was the only one standing in a dark room, waiting for the monsters to attack.

“Here’s your packet,” Maria slid over a thick manilla envelope. “Birth records, passports, social security, Netflix password, the whole shabang.” 

“Netflix? Wow the agency really is upping their game with the budget.”

“We paid for a $250 dollar meal at D’Abbruzio’s if you don’t recall,” Maria deadpanned.

“It was the most delicious meal I had in months - truly, highly recommended. Maybe you can bring your parents,” Steve said coyly.

“When Hell freezes over. The only place they’re going next is my place for a very well prepared meal,” Maria chuckled. She slid a phone over. “Anyway, it’s all programmed. I’m under ‘Maria - Assistant’ and as you can see in the messages there’s already a bunch of texts programmed of your coffee order thrown to me, nicely if I may add, and Nick is in there as Manager. Everyone else is just agents assigned to this task. Those are high profile emergency if you cannot reach me or Nick.” 

“Understood.”

“I think this is it,” Maria said as she handed him his apartment keys. 

“No car?”

“No car. Bike is in the apartment already,”

“Always wanted to up my cardio.”

Maria smiled. “We won’t be out of touch. You’re not going into a black hole, like you may think. I know this is tough for you after what you went through from your last big op, but a lot of people are counting on you. It’s a long task, but I think you’ll do great, Steve.”

Steve took a long deep breath. “Thank you.”

“Arrive here tomorrow, 8am. Truck will pick you up and bring you to the site.”

“Understood. I’m not biking my way into town?”

“You’re a famous artist, Stephen Turner. I only provide the best modes of transportation for my boss.” Maria leaned back in her chair, and closed her notebook.

*

Steve’s alarm blared at 6am, taking in the extra 45 minutes of sleep. He peeled opened his eyes and stared at the off-white ceiling.

Today was the day.

It began. 

Steve got out of bed, and changed into his issued clothes. His apartment was packed up and the only thing, that was left to his original name was his wallet. Somehow, the clock flew, and at 7:30am, Steve Rogers left his home, and by 8am, after perching his car in the parking garage, Stephen Turner set his luggage at the front of the FBI headquarters, and waited for the truck that would bring him to his new apartment in the north side of Arlington.

︾

Bucky’s hair stuck to the side of the face as the lovely sound of doors opening and slamming shut. He would have preferred the alarm. Watching time pass very slowly during the night, and getting _maybe_ two hours of sleep, he wished that whoever was running in and out of the place would  _just be mindful of the other tenants._ Bucky showered, got dressed, and poured himself a bowl of cereal, and waited out the continual noice, and noticed it like it was clockwork.

Open _and close, and open and -_

Bucky gripped the spoon a little too tight in frustrated anger, and snapped.

“Shit, not again.” 

The audible knocking on his door echoed through his quiet apartment, taking Bucky out of his thoughts. “Of all the days," Bucky muttered before discarding the spoon.“What do you want?” he said with a great amount of agitation, after opening the door without hesitation. Bucky immediately repositioned himself when he was met with his landlord. “Oh, Mr. Abernathy, I’m so sorry I didn’t realize it was you. Your check is in the mail for next month’s rent.”

“Oh, you’re the last tenant I worry about with rent money, you are fine. I’m sure you have heard the comings and goings of the new resident?”

“Unfortunately.”

“There was that woman in the jogging suit - a couple of weeks ago? She wanted that impromptu tour?”

“Oh, the semi-famous person that was looking at the place?”

“Yes! Yes, the same one. Well, he just took his bike for a stroll. Apparently he is the very Stephen Turner.”

“...who?”

“Up and coming artist, I can’t believe you haven’t heard of this guy. He’s rising the ranks very quickly. My two girls are swooning over him, and all I hear is ‘Turner this, Turner that’.” Mr. Abernathy huffed. “He does do really good work though, I am impressed with his skill. Here,” he tapped on his phone and then swiped through a couple of photos. Bucky had to admit that they weren’t half bad.

“Stephen Turner?” 

“By the very name.”

“Thanks for the info, I guess that it can’t hurt if I run into him,” Bucky chuckled, trying to keep the conversation light. 

“Anything for you James - try not to have Mr. Turner take over your ‘Best Renter’ award.”

“Still haven’t received the ones from the past years!” Bucky called after him, and shut his door lightly.

Bucky booted up his laptop, and dusted off the screen. He pulled up Chrome and started to type in that name he has heard already too many times.Automatically his Instagram page dating back to early 2017 were posted with nature scenes, portraits of other people and animals. Every so often his pen and paper would feature the previous picture. A gorgeous line drawing that was simple and elegant, but captured the emotion as to whatever was being featured. There was barely a caption - maybe a few words here or there, but it was left blank intentionally, as to not draw away from the image. Mr. Abernathy was right - he was the real deal. 

He opened up his police database - illegally downloaded, of course, on the dark-web to be able to expunge certain details of his own killings  - and typed in that name that he would not forget. No felonies, a few parking tickets - it would explain the bike, he probably didn’t want to deal with getting anymore - and a misdemeanor for trespassing private property, during a protest as the report showed.

 _Not a threat but stay away. He must not know,_ Bucky’s mind immediately ticked. “No shit, not a threat.” He said allowed.

Bucky closed his laptop, and walked back to his bed to take his mind off of his noisy, annoying, new neighbor, and finally get some fucking sleep.

*


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

When Steve opened his door to his new place, he was faced with a pile of boxes that stood upon one another. Used books from his old place, and new clothing packed away as old rested on his couch. The new books that were accumulated matched his own in someways. Biographies, historical non-fiction, and his favorite novels smattered together with art books, thrown in for good measure. It really conjured up the feeling that he had been living there for years at end, rather than just forty-five minutes. When Steve looked around the apartment once over as he sat on the leather-like couch, he found a box with new art supplies. He chuckled and shook his head.  _They really went all out for this one, huh,_ Steve thought. 

He returned to his living room, stumped at how to organize his place to Turner's liking. As he sat on the couch, basically looking at nothing, his eye caught a crumpled paper that was stapled to one of the boxes.

_The Ghost knows what I look like. He’s slick, but not that slick. I’ll be dropping by for monthly updates._

_I’ll bring coffee._

_-Maria_

Steve crumpled the paper and threw it into the garbage. At least he wasn't alone in this one again. Steve moved the boxes around, emptying some and shifting others to the opposite side of the room. He felt as though he needed to get out of the place, explore the city - the small rooms were starting to creep up on him. 

He dropped the food on the counter that he bought at the local store.. He carried enough that he could balance on his bike - enough for maybe a day or two, but the trip itself was enough to still the stress.

*

Steve looked for the best light - it came through the windows and rested softly in the first room. He brought the original pieces to his place to capture his pride in his own work. They were fall framed, so it at least made him look like he did some heavy lifting. Grabbing a hammer and some small nails, Steve started to hang the pieces around his new studio.  He looked around the room to get a feel, closing his eyes. He was transported back to his younger self, fresh into college, finding the perfect light to show off the best color.

Steve opened his eyes, and his eyesight landed on the wooden drawing desk. It  was dusty, but in all ways, perfect. He had only used them in college. The art lab had two which were always taken during the day, but as soon as 5pm hit, he was grateful to sneak away for a few hours. His mom at the time was a nurse that always took the night shifts. So he said goodbye to his mom, took the bus, and sat down at the desk, working on his projects for hours at a time, wishing he could be at home with one of his own.

Another note was attached.

_Before you ask - Goodwill._

_-M_

Steve sat down at the desk, saw a few graphite pencils that was placed in one of the smaller cardboard boxes, and grabbed one, and observed. He felt the wooden texture and the lightness to the tool, and deemed it old faithful. He sat down with the sharpened graphite pencil in his hand. His body was buzzing - too much new stimuli. He didn’t grab any beer since his bike didn’t allow any other room except to hang two Whole Foods bags on each side. Steve’s pencil started to move with light strokes - curving where the lines needed to be curving.

A beer bottle.

He shaded to capture the light that reflected off of the bottle, and gave a firmer press when the shadows might the light. It passed the time. When his pencil finally dulled, he took his page, blew off the excess dust and picked up the setting spray for no smudges. Steve scribbled his new initials  at the bottom corner. 

An illusion. 

Steve picked up his new phone, snapped a quick picture, and opened his social media page. Writing a small caption, Steve pressed 'done', and watched the picture upload. 

_new place, no beer_.

He clicked the button to turn off the phone and discarded to the side table. Steve, after a long day of moving boxes and expending energy,  was suddenly tired and sat down on his couch, to decompress from the weird long day.

︾

Bucky slept most of the day and he could have slept more if not for his stomach grumbling. He peeked at his phone, and even though he was expecting no new texts, he felt disappointed. He was getting antsy. He needed to do something...even if that meant putting a bullet between another person's eyes. His finger lingered over Instagram - it kept himself entertained. As the app opened, it automatically opened to the profile he was looking at hours ago. The profile photos shifted with a new one that was posted mere seconds ago. 

_new place, no beer._

A drawing on his table, with a few pencils scattered around. Turner was really good.

_Huh,_ was all Bucky could think, until a text messaged appeared on the top of his screen.

**you’re needed in two weeks.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 18
> 
> Bucky and Stephen Turner finally meet.

It had been 3 days and 4 hours since Steve Rogers noticed that his next door neighbor’s newspaper had still been in his mailbox, and 3 days, 3 hours and 35 minutes since he was furiously typing up a report on his computer noting that The Ghost had left his apartment. It was normal not to interact with him - he got as far as striking up a conversation with the local Peapod delivery person that always dropped 5 bags of what seemed to be exactly the same thing every time. She always said that this was her normal routine and an envelope for the service (’ _A very generous tip’_ ) was left in front of the door each time. 

For the past two weeks Steve had fallen into a routine. He would get up at 4:45am for his early morning jog around the city, grab his paper that was left in his mailbox, drink a large cup of coffee and write his reports. What he was taught in training at headquarters was that you would only know you were observing something when whatever it is, changes its routine.

3 days and 4 hours ago, The Ghost’s newspaper was still in his mailbox. If Steve had run past the 6:15am mark, the paper would be gone (it happened thrice). So, when the newspaper was still tucked into the cubby - this became an observable fact. 

The Ghost was gone. 

His reports during the time being were mostly bullet points. He couldn’t clock the indescribable sounds that fluttered through the cracks in the walls or the  _too_  quietness of the building at 3pm on a Wednesday. Steve would just end up making a one page document, and in all caps letters, which were more a reminder for himself, would write:

**_WAITING FOR THE RETURN. WILL MAKE FIRST POINT OF CONTACT THEN._ **

It was only when Steve was trudging along on his third report with copied and pasted paragraphs, was when he heard his next door neighbor’s door slam shut. He had barely gotten through the 10am time slot when the gears had to shift. 

“Shit.  _Shit,”_ Steve muttered. 

It was now or never. 

He needed to borrow some newspapers. 

*

Steve didn’t know how how long The Ghost would be staying, so he had to act fast. He pushed his chair from the desk and went to the bathroom, grabbing a small case. Green colored contacts. 

When Steve was chosen for the observed undercover mission, he had forgotten the one thing that Bucky could recognize. Bucky was so close to realizing who Steve was. It was a rookie mistake that almost cost him the job.  _“Are you sure? Did you spend any time in Brooklyn?”_ Steve remembered his voice perfectly. It was gravely and rough and it resonated with him during those nights where he would look at the clock as it struck 3:01am.

Bucky stared right at him - looked right into his eyes, and he wouldn’t forget the face that almost cracked. Steve needed this - this job, to be able to prove that he could go back to how things were. Not back to the desk duty, or shuffling boxes of charts from the 5th floor to archives, like he was 95 and using a walker in a nursing home. 

Green contacts. 

The color was off enough to make his features seem different, but enough that Steve wouldn’t see a different person in the mirror. Steve fixed a few strands of hair that weren’t quite settling. Steve grabbed his key, and closed the apartment door behind him. He managed to get to the mailbox before anyone saw the mess that wasn’t there before. 

Papers were strewn ever where like he was looking for a package. Steve gathered the papers and placed them in his hands as a more manageable pile. He walked back up to the floor, to see if he could finally personally meet the one and only.

Steve Rogers might have walked to the door, but Stephen Turner knocked on the door to ask if he could borrow some newspapers.

︾

Bucky slammed his door when he got home. They made him go to the Florida swamps, where it was still disgustingly humid with record setting temperatures. He was nose deep in swamp water trying to find his target for about three hours, before it took another hour to try and find the best part of the swamp to kill another person. No guns, just strength had to be used. It was a learning experience for sure. An experience where he learned he can hold his breath underwater for six minutes.  

Bucky still had dirt...everywhere. As soon as his target was dead (by the lone alligator that swiped him from the boat, as far as anyone knew) Bucky went straight to his escape vehicle, and back to the rented hotel room where he cleaned up before hitching a ride back to his apartment. He didn’t even bother with his shoes. What’s another 18 hours? He was just in the car by himself and didn’t have to spruce up appearances. 

Bucky looked in the mirror in his bathroom and noted that he looked like he was still drowning. He shook off the feeling, took his medication and turned the shower to it’s hottest setting. 

Comfort. Bucky needed comfort. Fall had finally approached DC, and where as it wasn’t as cold as New York would be, coming back from Florida made it feel like it was practically winter. He got into a soft pair of sweatpants and a red henley before depositing his clothes into the washing machine. 

His ears picked up the light knocking that was coming from his front door. 

Before opening, he looked through the small window in his door He knew him. Old memories a small kid from Brooklyn drawing surfaced, but Bucky just shook them off. _Drawing. Artist. Turner. Stephen Turner._

_Arm._ He immediately found his arm cover. It was something that gave him away completely, and he had to take all precautions that was necessary - didn’t matter who it was.Before Bucky opened the door he repeated softly to himself “Not a threat.”

He turned the handle and cracked the door. “Uh...can I help you?”

“Hey - I feel like I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Stephen Turner...” He took his hand out to shake, balancing the newspapers in one hand. Bucky didn’t accept.

“James.” His response was quick and terse. He just wanted to sleep.

“This is a strange question,” Turner lifted the papers to get a better idea of what he was asking. “I’m trying to create a series of pantings for an installation and I need to use some papers - I ran out of mine that I had been accumulating. I know it’s early and-”

“Why didn’t I take the papers?” Bucky whispered to himself.

“What?”

Bucky snapped back to reality. “I kind of had a rough day, so if you can please just return to...whatever you were doing, that would be great.” 

“Oh, uh okay. I’ll just leave these with you then,”

“Just the top one,” Bucky said, and held his covered arm out.

“Hm?”

Bucky rubbed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.“I go away a lot for business, so uh..if I’m gone a long time, and there’s another pile, you can take it. Just when I get back home I just need the front page.”

“Oh, great. Helps me reduce costs and all,” Turner gave a lopsided smile. It was warm. It almost made Bucky smile.

“Uh, no worries.”

There was a pause in Turner’s voice. “Do you want the front page now?”

“Yes, actually.”

Turner shuffled through the pages, and slid out a few long pages. “Here you go, James? Right?”

“Right.”

“This gives me a least a start, so thanks,” Stephen Turner smiled again. “By the way, nice tattoo - did the forearm hurt?” Bucky furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “The deer,” Turner pointed to the ink covered area on his arm.  _Fuckin’ Joe Crawford_.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, it hurt a whole fucking lot, actually. It’s cool though,” it was a poor lie, but it stuck, somehow.

“It really is...but I guess my next one won’t be on my arm. Thanks for these,” Turner held up the papers.

“You’re welcome, paper-man,” Bucky almost closed the door, as Turner turned around and opened his. However, before Bucky shut it all the way, he yanked the door opened slightly more. “Hey, Turner?”

The flannel clad mad turned around, and the light from the window near his door shined right into showing almost emerald-green eyes. “Yeah?”

“Remember, front page,” Bucky said, and quickly closed the door as he gripped onto the page, and hastily read the date. The door outside of his clicked close. Bucky didn't realize the panic that settled in as soon as he got home.

He didn't realize that as soon as he read what day it was, the panic settled. Time just kept slipping from under his fingers. 

*


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 25 and Day 26
> 
> Steve grabs a drink.
> 
> Or five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel

It had been another week of small hellos, and really not much else. Steve had been dying of boredom, and he could only run or bike so much in a day.

Steve needed to get out the apartment. He was becoming a hermit as much The Ghost. The sun started to dip under the horizon, and Steve pulled on a fresh set of clothes, grabbed his keys and phone, and started to walk downtown. There were a lot of times where he needed to be surrounded by people he knew, familiar faces that returned his recognition, but having a place where people really didn't know who he was comforting. He understood why The Ghost chose this town.

Steve wanted to be stealth - he wanted to make sure that Steve Rogers wasn't a name that was uttered. So, Stephen Turner dipped into a bar, and ordered a pint of beer. 

No, he needed something stronger. He needed to lose himself in this persona, for tonight.

“What can I get ya?” The bartender asked, as she leaned onto the table. Her blonde hair shaped her face into a oval, and the color softened her smile. 

“Whiskey?” 

“Daring,” She took out a small pad of paper. “Any food? Kitchen’s open for another hour.”

“No, the whiskey'll be fine for today.”

“Okay, well, If you need anything, I’m Sharon,” she said as she winked. 

Within the hour he drank two glasses. Steve was loose, and anxiety free. 

“So...” Sharon leaned on the table again.

“Stephen.”

“Stephen - what do you do?” 

“Oh, nothing important. I draw a lot.”

“That’s it? You draw?” Her eyebrows reached her hairline, as a smile swept across her face. 

“I mean,” Stephen laughed. “I’m an  _artist,_ if you want to bring up semantics,” he reached for his whiskey, finishing off the last drop in his glass.

“So, Mr. Artist, can I see some drawings?” She asked, softly.

“Don’t you have any other patrons to bother?”

“Finished my shift fifteen minutes ago, actually,” Sharon pulled out a chair at Steve’s table. 

“Well, in that case, I don’t have my notebook on me,” Stephen scratched his beard, as his mind started to swirl. “But if you can please get a piece of paper and a pencil I can show you. Probably won’t be as good since I’ve had a few drinks in me.”

“Well, I don’t mind,” Sharon traced her finger on the table. “How about this - I’m gonna get us another round, and a glass of water for you as well,” She laughed. “But I’m also gonna get some paper and a pencil, because I want to see your skill.”

“Is this a test, now?” Stephen challenged. 

“Isn’t life just a series of tests?” Sharon challenged back. 

*

He drew the portrait and signed the corner. “Well,” Steve pushed the paper forward. “Now you have a Stephen Turner original.”

“I honestly feel honored,” Sharon laughed, and started to trace Steve’s hand on the table.

“Bar closing in 10 y’all,” the bartender yelled across the room. 

 “Any chance we could... maybe finish the evening in a place little less loud? Maybe your place?” Sharon asked quietly.

“Uh,” Steve chuckled. “It’s more like my bedtime, then anything else.”

‘Ah,” Sharon took her hand away, and smiled tightly. “Maybe, next time.”

“Maybe next time.”

By the time Steve got back to the apartment complex, the first two glasses of alcohol got through his system. He started to feel as though he was more sober, however trying to get himself into his own apartment told a different story.

︾

All Bucky heard was someone keying his lock. He slipped on his arm cover, put on a loose pair of sweats, and picked up the switchblade that rested underneath his pillow. He walked up slowly, not to make the wooden floorboards creak loud enough to have the person on the other side of the door hear. Bucky got up to the door and looked through the peephole and saw the blond artist fumbling with his bike lock keys right in front of the door. All he heard were slight slurred words of frustration. Bucky pocketed the knife, and leaned his head against the door.

“You stupid, fucking, idiot,” he whispered as he turned the handle, and opened the door. 

Stephen Turned literally fell right into Bucky.

“Oh, fuck, shit,” Stephen said, slurring his words  as he stumbled forward, taking Bucky down on the floor with him. Bucky rolled from underneath of the other man, pushing Stephen off to the floor. “Oh no,” he groaned, “that was way too fast. Wait, how the fuck did you get into my apartment?!” Stephen’s eyes were barely open, as he faced Bucky.

“Not your apartment, dickhead, It’s mine. It’s almost three a.m. and I want to go back to sleep, so can you please get your keys and leave?”

The man on the floor slowly patted his pants pockets. “I don’t think the keys I have are my apartment keys.” He was still laying on the floor.

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, and squatted down near Stephen. “How many drinks did you even have? I can smell it from here.”

“Lost count, honestly. I thought I was good when I left the bar, but,” Stephen started to laugh. “I guess not!” 

This man, who barely had spoken to him other than to borrow his newspapers was now drunkenly sprawled on the floor, laughing because of the fact that he drank a stupid amount of alcohol. “You’re gonna hurt in the morning.”

“Mmmm, yeah.”

“Can you get up?”

“Uh,” Stephen took in a deep breath through his nose, with his eyes closed. “I think so...yes. Just, slowly please.” Bucky held out his flesh hand and gripped Stephen’s tight to help him to his feet.

“Shit, I...” Stephen started to say as he stabilized his balance, then closed his eyes and breathed in again. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Okay, so we are immediately going to the toilet.” Somehow, by pure luck, they made it before Stephen threw up into the bowl. Bucky just sat back until the vomit turned into retches, then turned into silence.

“Are you done?” Bucky asked as he handed Stephen a tall glass of water.

“Yeah,” Stephen said as he leaned against the wall near the toilet, and accepted the water. He gulped it down.

“You sound a lot more sober, to be quite honest.” 

“Throwing up does that,” Stephen leaned his head back onto the bathroom wall. “Shit, I think I left my apartment keys at the bar.”

“Yeah, I figured that when you were trying to use your bike lock keys to open my door.”

“Sorry, by the way.”

“Let’s just get you to sleep on the couch so we can just wake up and forget it.” 

︾

Steve woke up with a blaring headache, and the feeling of needing to throw up again. He threw the covers off of him and ran to the bathroom, like muscle memory served him.

Steve wiped his mouth, when he finished. 

This wasn’t his bathroom.

The night came rushing back to him. 

Sharon. 

Whiskey.

Keys.

_The Ghost._

_The Ghost’s apartment._

Steve was in The Ghost’s apartment.

“Well, good morning...or should I say good afternoon,” James looked at his watch, as he leaned on the door frame.

Steve spit out the rest of the taste in his mouth. “Good afternoon.” His voice was raw. “Do you happen to have any Advil?”

“I don’t.”

“Sorry...for all of this. ”

“For what? Throwing up multiple times in my bathroom, or forgetting your keys to your place?” The Ghost handed him a glass of water.

“Both, I think.” Steve gulped down the water, and got up from the floor. “Thank you.”

“I mean with the most sincere tone of voice,  _please_ leave my apartment.”

“Gotcha.”

*

Steve closed The Ghost’s door, and let out the breath he didn’t know he was hold in for the past twelve hours. 

Keys.

He needed his apartment keys, food, and coffee. Preferably in reverse order. He didn’t have his sunglasses, so Steve left the building with the side with the least amount of sun, and started walking back to the bar. He stopped to grab a coffee, and a breakfast sandwich, to at least get him back to a normal level of being hungover. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Hello?” he asked as he put the phone to his ear.

“ _Stephen! I’m about to head over to your place. What do you want for a coffee?_ ” a perky voice pierced Steve’s ear.

“Maria? I’m not in the place , you don’t have to -” Steve was cut off.

“ _Oh thank god. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes_.”

“Okay. Can you bring coffee though, too? Advil too please.”

“ _You know I’m not really your assistant, and actually your superior,_ ” Steve could here the roll of her eyes through the phone.

“Yes, I am aware. But, I am also your colleague who is severely hungover, and I don’t think I can give you my full account of the past month without those two magical cures.”

“ _They better be good accounts, Rogers_ ,” Maria said as she immediately hung up her phone. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

 

Maria paced Steve’s studio. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not the one that is hungover, but  _you what now?”_

_“_ Sleeping on a couch is not a bad thing to do!” 

"Not when the couch owner in question is  _an international assassin, Steven,”_ Maria stressed the last half of the sentence. “We’re asking you to gain trust, not become his best friend again.” The last word made Steve tense. Maria looked at Steve’s stiffed hands, and sighed. “We can’t afford to lose you. _Again._  This operation becomes bigger by the day,” Maria grabbed the file of reports. “These right here, these documented recorded times out of the apartment. Two weeks ago some rogue arms dealer was found dead in the Everglades, strangled and drowned. Forensics’ team along with some forensic biologists were able to dial his death day within a week, even with the amount of water that absorbed. This,” Maria held up the papers, “gives us more of a time frame. We can't have you letting your defensives down in a time of drunkenness," Maria sat down on the wooden stool, and saw Steve's pursed lips. "The time frame from your files isn't definite...but it’s a start.” 

"So what should I do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I need to become his friend to gain trust... but I can't become his old friend, but a new one?" Steve leaned forward and put his hands around his neck. “How can I get someone to trust me, when it’s all built around a lie?” 

“I don’t know, Steve. You’re the agent.” 

*

Maria grabbed her jacket from the back of the couch, as she walked back to the room. “I’ll be back in one month. We will be in our standard communication, until then.”

“Understood,” Steve walked up in front of her, and led her out to the door. As Maria gave her hand out to shake when the door opened, Steve saw the door across the hall open as well. The Ghost stepped into view with a full trash bag, and Steve gave Maria a hug.

“Thanks so much for stopping by, M.”

“ _Please for the love of God stop hugging me,”_ Maria muffled into Steve’s chest. As Steve released her, Maria turned around awkwardly facing The Ghost. “Sorry, ‘scuse me,” Maria started walked down the hallway. “Uh, don’t forget about that...uh..what are you calling it?” She asked at a loss of words.

“Print Media,” Steve was effortless.

“That piece. Lot’s of potential offers. Call me!” She was already halfway out the apartment building’s door by the time she managed to get through the sentence. 

“Sorry for interrupting you and your girlfriend,” James said quietly. 

“No worries, and uh, that was my assistant. She helps me out with a few things,” Steve smiled and turned around to get back into his apartment. 

“Hey,” James said, and Steve turned around. “Are you feeling any better? Sorry for the no Advil...thing.”

“Hm? Oh, much better, actually,” Steve chuckled. “I picked up a breakfast sandwich at Lucinda’s Diner down the road. Maria got me some coffee and the Advil. I’m a new man. Thanks for letting me crash on the couch.”

“You’re welcome. You didn’t puke on my carpet, so you’re not the worst guest I’ve had.” 

“Well,  _now_  I want to know who was your worst guest,” Steve laughed.

“Nope,” James stated and then started to walk towards the exit. 

*

Steve let out the breath that he was holding, and grabbed his phone. It was a series of texts from Maria and three missed calls.

_u ok?_

_stephen_

_hey_

_PLEASE ANSWER ARE YOU OKAY_

_**everything is okay.** _

_oh thank god_

_**now i actually have to create art because some investors are interested in print media** _

_for fucks sake i panicked, and you answered. now you have something to do in your free time. you might want to go to the art store, turner._

_*_

The whole emerging artist gig kept bringing memories from college back. Steve remembered stretching his own canvases, picking out paints, and choosing the right brush. He remembered opening up bottles, and the smell when he poured it onto his palette. Steve was at the local art store looking at stretched canvases. He ran his hand across the material, letting the roughness catch the calluses on the palm of his hand. He tested the tautness.

Steve’s mind drifted to Bucky’s metal arm.

James’ arm.

The Ghost’s metal arm.

Steve wondered if it had sensors or if it could feel temperature. He wondered if he was able to experience things like before whatever happened to him. 

Steve didn’t realize he was pushing against the canvas with too much force. The canvas broke and his hand popped through the center.

“Crap,” Steve said as he saw what he had done. He gathered the rest of the materials he wanted, and a couple more canvases. Steve lugged the materials on his bike, slightly cursing and not asking for a small beat-up car. 

Steve got to his apartment and grabbed the newspapers that started to pile by the door. He spread out the papers across his studio. 

How could he turn this into  _something?_

Something caught Steve’s eye from the newspaper on top.

**_THE EVERGLADES - AMERICA’S NEW RESTING PLACE?_ **

**_Florida Man Found Strangled Underwater_ **

Steve was going to have to save some articles, and use the rest. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are in the US and/or celebrate Thanksgiving, I hope you all have a wonderful holiday. If you don't live in the US or celebrate Thanksgiving, I hope you have a wonderful rest of the day nonetheless!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 27
> 
> Bucky takes a trip to the doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! 
> 
> I am increasing the rating due to this chapter containing Canon-Typical Violence as well as future chapters containing more Adult situations. 
> 
> Please see end of notes for chapter summery.

Bucky caught the bus to the doctor’s office. It went from a sunny day to down-pouring rain the next. He sat near the back next to the window to see the rain glide from one widow to the next. 

He hated these days. It almost felt like he was forced to go.

*

“Hi, James Barnes, checking in for the 2:30 appointment,” he said as he walked up to the counter. It was a quiet day in the office, and it seemed like the medical assistant and himself were the only ones there. Usually there were kids walking around, adults tapping on their phones or flipping through months old magazines, but there was just...nobody.

“Fantastic, you arrived at a perfect time. I’ll take you in now,” The medical assistant grabbed his file off of the holder and opened the door to the rest of the office.

It was the same room as always. Two doors then a right, then three doors, then enter. 

The bed was cold.

It was more than a few minutes before Zola came into the office.

“James, good afternoon. Sorry I was a bit late, I was finishing up a call with another doctor,” Zola gave him a tight smile. “How are we doing? Especially after that episode last time I saw you?”

“Uh...” James took his hands off the wax paper that he sat on, and folded them in from on himself. “Okay, haven’t had too many issues. Sleep has been bad, but what else is new?” Bucky chuckled softly.

“Hm...” Zola scribbled down some notes.

“No pain from the shoulder, recently at least.”

“Good.”

“That’s about it, I guess.”

“Good. Any side effects from the medication?”

“No. Haven’t really been drinking either.”

‘Not a bad thing,” Zola gave a tight smile. “Today, I want to go over some cognition tests, is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Great! You know the drill,” Zola handed him a piece of paper with ten words listed in order. “We will be using this as a speech and cognition baseline, then we will get on with the fun stuff.”

Bucky read the words. His eyelids started to get heavy. 

“Mr. Barnes? Mister B _ar **nes**._..”

*

Zola snapped his fingers in front of The Ghost’s face a few times. He was awake but it wasn’t James that was in front of him.

“Marissa?” Zola called from the room. 

“Yes, doctor?” 

“Can you wheel him to the back room? I need to do a couple of tests today.”

“Yes, doctor.”

When The Ghost was situated, he continued to sit there, crouched over with his arms resting on his thighs. 

“Ghost,” Zola stated, looking for his attention. 

“What is my mission?”

“No mission, other to comply.”

“Comply to what,” it came out as a statement.

“Comply to my orders for the time being, until words are said in reverse.”

“Understood. What is my mission?”

“Take Marissa.”

“What?” Marissa stood by the door, still, watching the doctor instruct The Ghost. He took her by the neck with his metal arm.

“Let’s make sure your training in Russia stuck with you.” Zola’s smile widened.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” Marissa said, barely a whisper. Zola walked up to her, letting his coat sway. 

“To think he actually listens to you, so sweet,” Zola took a gun out of one pocket, and a silencer out of the other. The Ghost took both with one hand. He felt the woman tense under his metal , and try to escape, but he only held harder. The Ghost managed to still hold the woman and put together the gun. 

“ _Please don’t hurt me,”_  the woman was pleading now, tears starting to well up in her eyes. The Ghost’s eye ticked, his breathing picked up slightly, but just enough for Zola to see.

“Ghost,”

“Wh-” he stopped to clear his throat. “What is my mission.”

“Kill her.”

The Ghost quickly put the barrel of the silencer underneath the woman’s chin. Tears were openly streaming down her face. 

The Ghost paused.

“ _Kill her.”_

Next thing the Ghost saw was blood splattered across his face and against the wall behind where a body once stood.

“Mission status,” Zola stated.

“Woman killed. Report on pass or fail.”

“Fail.”

The Ghost tensed. 

“I see you tensing  _Ghost,”_ Zola walked around the killer. “Now, why do you tense when you hear the word fail.”

“Systems.”

“Expand on that.”

“Operations put in place when missions fail.”

“...and why did the mission fail?”

“I hesitated.”

“...and what happens if you hesitate, Ghost?”

“Punishment.”

“Correct,” Zola walked to a small chest in the corner of the dark room and opened it. A long black stick that rested inside was taken out, and small click caused a ring of blue light to appear at the bottom.

The Ghost walked to the wall, where two spots were faded - where his palms were placed many times before - placing them in the exact same spot.

“How many for hesitation?” Zola asked.

“Twenty.”

“Correct,” was the last thing Zola stated before hitting The Ghost on the back with the electrified rod. 

*

Bucky woke up on the bed, back hurting like he was hit by a car. “Shit.”

“James?” Zola came rushing into the room. 

“What happened?” his voice was groggy, and straining with slight pain.

“Oh dear, you fainted and fell off of the bed, into one of the free standing machines. You hit your head and back pretty hard.”

“What time is it?”

“It just passed six o clock. You should get home.” 

“No concussion?”

“Marissa and I checked while you were sleeping. No concussion, but ice your back - there’s bound to be a mark.”

“Okay, sorry for keepin’ you here, Doc.”

“You’re completely fine, James. Just call to make you next appointment.” 

“Thanks, again.”

*

Bucky rested his head on the foggy window on the bus, the whole way home.

*

The apartment complex was warm. Not scorching hot, but feeling as though he stepped from fall to spring, He got to his door, to find his neighbor left his open.

“Uh, hello?” He called into the apartment. “Hello?” 

Bucky stuck his hand into the side pocket where a knife rested. The place was nice, down to Earth, and surrounded in deep Navy and deep green colors. It didn’t seem as though things were out of place, but the door open was not what he was used to. Turner was a semi-private guy, other than his regularly updated Instagram page.

Which he definitely did  _not_  set alerts for.

He heard the floorboards creak from the other room, and Bucky gripped his knife tighter and drew it out of his pocket, as he walked into what seemed to be Stephen’s studio. 

It was empty. 

He let down his guard slightly. It was a nice room, honestly. Bucky could see why Turner chose it. Lighting was nice.

The baseball bat that appeared by the side of his cheek wasn’t.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes to the doctor for his checkup. There, he is read the words to become the Ghost. The Ghost kills the medical assistant, and because The Ghost hesitates, he is punished. Bucky wakes up from the Ghost, does not remember, and goes back home to his neighbor's empty apartment.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel

Bucky cursed internally. He could feel the coldness radiating from the metal bat that was inches from his face. 

“Wait,” It was that  _fucking artist’s voice_.

“If you could  _please_  get the bat away from my face, that’d be helpful,” Bucky pocketed his knife, and placed his hands in a defensive mode as he turned around, while the bat was lowered. “Thanks.”

“James, how the fuck did you get in here?”

“Door was open,” Bucky pointed outside the studio. Only now was he noticing that Turner wasn’t in his normal attire of a flannel and jeans, but in old sweats and an faded gym shirt. He looked completely out of place. “Why do you look like it’s laundry day?”

“Thanks, you look like shit too if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You’re so nice to your next door neighbor. At least I gave you a couch to sleep on,” Bucky grumbled. It was definitely not his day. But what day was for him, honestly. Bucky continued to the door without looking behind him.

“James, shit, I’m sorry,” Turner signed, “Displaced anger really,” Bucky heard Turner’s hand fall to his side. Bucky paused, and leaned on the door frame.

“I just wanted to make sure that no one was robbing your place.”

‘Oh,” Stephen’s voice was quiet. “I get really in the zone when I start painting. I mostly draw, but the whole thing that you heard with Maria has my head spinning a bit. The fumes started to get to my head, and I guess I should have opened the windows...so...thanks, I think?” Stephen sighed, “Did you have a knife?”

Slight anxiety shot up Bucky’s spine. “No,” Bucky forced a chuckle. “It was a piece of cardboard I had, in my pocket. Again, thought someone was gonna kill you, so I had to scare off those pesky robbers.” 

“Thank you, oh brave one.” Stephen made a mock bow. Bucky rolled his eyes, and pushed off the door frame to walk back across the hall. 

*

Bucky wasn’t hungry, but he needed to eat. He popped a bowl of pre-cooked rice into the microwave and heated it up, a little Sriracha mixed in to give a little flavor. His back still stung from the fall - but it felt more surface level than anything. He was curious, but decided maybe it was best not to look. Netflix was a blur. Nothing popped up that seemed interesting, and all of the good binge-able content was already seen thrice over, so his attention turned to his phone. 

**s.turner posted a new photo**

Bucky opened up the notification to the new post. His drawing table was filled with meticulously placed paint tubes and brushes, that surround the moleskin notebook. A fresh page was folded over with a pencil rested in the spine edge of the book, with a new drawing to the left. It was a line drawing of a knight with simple shading was on display, with already over a thousand likes and more than a handful of comments. 

A simple caption of ‘ _safe?’_  was noted underneath. Bucky bet it was sort of an apology for him - making him look like the brave protector of the apartments.

_If only Turner knew who is next door neighbor was,_ Bucky thought as he put the phone down, 

︾

Steve was barely close to being done with the first canvas. He forgot how difficult it was to put a series together.  Granted, Steve took the time out to draw the knight and shining armor, which was a nice break. He sat down at his computer and started his report on the interactions he had with Bucky. 

They were short in retrospect - what felt like hours with him was not even fifteen minute blocks,  _but_ it was fifteen minutes more than the two seconds. It still felt...not right. It was all basing on a lie. The more and more Steve weaved himself in and around the idea of trying to get intel and The Ghost himself to cave to go to the next step is just pure manipulation. Trust, at least to Steve, was the most pure bond two humans could have, and if that was all false, how could you trust anyone else after? 

Steve would just isolate himself, more and more. 

However, trust is vital no matter what, especially in the realm of being an undercover agent. 

Steve grabbed his yellow legal pad of paper and a pen and started to scribble on a list.

_**trust**._

1 _. equal playing field._

_2\. streamline communication._

_3\. more quality time?_

_4\. keep up with plans._

_5\. keep checking with projection rate._

_6\. space._

_7\. gratitude that you’re still alive after being with an assassin._

_8\. more in-depth talk._

_9\. endgame. bring him in._

Steve tapped his pen on the table. Was this the trust that Maria mentioned? Maybe, maybe not. If it came from a instructional video, it would feel robotic, like somebody playing poker -  _intentionally_ choosing the bet because you had a fifty-fifty chance that they were going to either go forward or not, since you had a set statistic in front of you. In real life, however, everything is chance - there would be no statistics, no best way. Steve’s brand of trust had to be from within, it had to be true even though it was a lie.

It was a paradox that hurt Steve’s brain, and made him want a stiff drink at the same time.

*


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 34
> 
> They go for a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel

Steve’s days became monotonous again, with his chores and tasks revolving around each other in pointed fashion. This is what he forgot about undercover work - it was boring, because people’s lives aren’t usually facing danger every second of their life. Monotonous chores were normal.

He had been about three quarters the way done with the first piece of Print Media. In a way he was thankful for Maria's improv - it allowed for Steve to do something with his idle time. When he was not painting, Steve was scanning the newspapers for anything that was related to his next door neighbor, something that could lead to why the Ghost had been so quiet.

However, every day he would see the mailbox cubby empty once again, with the tips of his fingertips aching for something new. Steve leaned back in his chair and idly looked at the locked draw that held his remembered his _stupid list_ that currently resided in a locked draw. It mocked him for not following his own rules - he could feel his own anxiety creep up.

_Well, I have to at least make an effort,_ Steve thought. He got up from the chair, walked outside his place, and knocked on the door that sat across from his. Steve rolled on his feet as he waited for someone to answer the door. Steve was just about to turn around when the door opened. 

“Hey, uh...” James rubbed his eyes.

“Oh shit, did I just wake you up from a nap?” Steve cursed internally.  _Nope, abandon hope._   _Just leave, come back later or something ju-_

_“_ A nap? Wait what time is it?” James questioned. 

“Around two-thirty in the afternoon,” Steve responded.

“Oh shit, I overslept again,” James leaned his head on the doorframe. “A knock is a good alarm, I guess?” 

“I guess so,” Steve chuckled.

“So, what’s up? I don’t have to scare anyone with the cardboard knife again, do I?”

“No! No - and thank you, again. Really,” Steve smiled, trying to be as genuine as possible. “I, uh, I’ve been living here for about a month and a half...and I just realized all I have been doing is painting.”

"Not a bad thing, honestly.”

‘No, I suppose not, but all I have been doing _is_ painting...I haven’t really made any friends.”

“Well, that sucks,” Steve could hear the deadpan nature in James’ voice. Steve rolled his eyes, slightly. 

“You are literally the only person I have talked to, outside of the bartender I met when I got wasted and ended up at your place.”

“Oh,” There was slight shock in James’ voice. “Wait, are you calling me your only friend in this place?” 

“More like this city.” It was deliberately awkward, but there was an one hundred percent ounce of truth. His whole life Steve had trouble making friends. He was that small skinny kid in the back of class who said nothing, except answering questions and talking to the guy who was now standing right in front of him. 

“That’s pretty sad,” James shrugged. 

“Yeah, I, uh...I guess so,” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, with the familiar anxiety started to form around his shoulders. “I’m gonna - I got some stuff to take care of. I’m sorry to bother you...” Steve turned his lips into a tight line and started to head back to his place. “See you around.”

“Stephen wait - I’m. Ugh.” James was aggravated. “I’m being a massive jerk. Didn’t have the best night’s sleep and it...gets to me.”

“Displaced anger?”

“Displaced anger. I really don’t mean to be an ass to you,” James' voice sounded sincere. Steve raised his eyebrows into his hairline in disbelief. “I saved you from the imaginary robbers in your place, how much of a jerk can I really be?”

_Well_ , Steve thought,  _considering the amount of people you’ve killed, that’s yet to be decided._

_"_ So, only friend, what gives waking me at such an hour?”

“Any chance you can show me around?”

“Don’t you already know the whole layout of this city anyway? You managed to walk from downtown to  _here_  completely plastered.” 

“It’s a skill. A drunken skill,” Steve laughed. “I mean,  _really_  show me around. I need to know the real places to go, especially if I wanted to wander plastered around downtown.”

James rolled his eyes, and sighed. He dipped his head, letting some strands of his hair fall into his face. “Am I gonna regret this?”

“Regret? Who said anything about regret?” 

“Well, if you’re gonna need to learn places in the dark - how about tonight? You can put on your best flannel and charm  _all_  the ladies,” 

“Is that an order?” Steve asked.

"Only if you want it to be," Bucky chuckled in response.

"Well then, 'Aye, aye, Captain," Steve put two fingers to his forehead, and brought it down in mock salute while cracking a small smile.

︾

Bucky closed the door. 

A friend. 

A designation he hadn’t have been bestowed upon in a long, _long_  time.

The warmth that exuded from him was inviting. It was a nice feeling.. 

Bucky cleared his throat. 

_I should get of my pajamas,_ he thought.

His phone buzzed. 

**Tomorrow. You’re needed.**

Bucky sighed.

_Okay. Time frame?_

**Two days. All other information will be in the folder at 6am.**

_Understood._

*

The hours passed. Bucky used the time packing his gear bag full of the deconstructed weapons and his usual tactical gear. That was all he could pack before finding out the actual location of the hit he was assigned to.

He hoped it was warm.

A knock took Bucky out of his shallow thoughts. He slid the duffle bag underneath the bed. A small part of him held him back from answering the door from enjoying things - from enjoying company with other people. Bucky tried to shake off the feeling, saying the phrase  _it’s needed_  to himself.  

Bucky threw on a pair of shoes, and opened his door. Stephen Turner, as promised, was standing outside, hands in his pockets.

“Hey!” Stephen said, warmly. “Are you ready to map out my next drunken route?”

“Only if the end of the map doesn’t end at my apartment.” 

“Noted.”

It took them no more than ten minutes to reach downtown. The lights illuminated the semi-busy street, and as it made the path toward Bucky’s favorite cafe.

“They have really good coffee here. Better than Starbucks.”

“That’s a bold statement,” Stephen peered into the window with one hand, trying to see the rest of the place. 

“It’s...more handcrafted. Just tastes like people care about the coffee. Plus, the roasts just have a fresher taste,” Bucky paused. “Don’t think I’m gonna let that coffee pun slide by.”

“I wasn’t making a pun!” Stephen laughed. Bucky looked over at him in disbelief. “I swear!" The both of them continued to walk through the downtown sector before Stephen piped up. "I wouldn’t strike you as a coffee snob.”

“When you do as much traveling as I do, you start to latch onto things that remind you of home,” Bucky shrugged while Stephen just looked at him.

“What do you do anyway?” the artist asked.

Bucky had his answer tucked away in his back pocket, because it was the one question that people always have some unnecessary need to ask. “I’m a contractor.”

“For construction, I’m guessing?”

“Is there anything else?” Bucky tried to make the response light. 

“No, I suppose not,” Stephen chuckled. They walked around more, circling the second street that made up the downtown area of the city, Bucky intermittently pointing at stores and shops he’s visited his during his time. 

They ended up walking the longer way home through the city park, letting the sidewalk lamps guide their path.

“Hey, uh,” Stephen put his hands in his pockets. The chill in the air picked up, and his flannel couldn’t quite stop the slight drop in temperature. “Thanks for the semi-impromptu tour. I now know where Maria can get me the  _supposed_ best cappuccino when I need a break from painting.” 

“Supposed? Now  _I’m_ feeling betrayed.”

“I can’t put something on a pedestal until I have tried it,” Stephen shrugged. 

“You’re gonna regret those words, when you take a sip. I’m just sayin’“ Bucky put his hands up in defense. 

“ _Sayin’_? Who are you, Joey Tribbiani?” Stephen laughed.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Bucky replied, in lightheartedness. “I can’t help that my Brooklyn roots come through when I’m trying to defend a good cup of coffee.” 

“Only if I’m able to defend a good plate of soft shell crabs, then we’re even.”

*

They kept walking, in silence, until they reached the apartment complex. Bucky knew it was too early, but took a glance at his mailbox cubby nonetheless. 

“Looking for the coupon booklet?” Stephen commented.

Bucky chuckled. “No, no. Just a package. High hopes, to be honest.”

“Ah,”

They got to their doors. Bucky, opened his and was halfway though before he saw Stephen turn around. 

“Hey, James?”

“Yeah?” 

“Thanks, for tonight. I...really needed just to get out of my place.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky smiled, genuinely. “You better try that cappuccino. You’re missing out, Turner.”

Stephen inserted the key, and turned it to unlock the door. “I’ll put it on the list,” he smiled, walked in, and shut the door. Bucky smiled back, before Stephen closed the door completely. There was a very small flicker of hope that Stephen would tip Bucky’s chin upwards, and lean in to kiss. 

Bucky cleared his throat and packed the thought away. Stephen called him his friend, and it was just that. He didn’t want to ruin his first friendship in, however many years. 

_Don’t let it distract you,_ a small voice in the back of his head whispered.

Bucky had a job tomorrow. 

_Don’t let him distract you._

_*_


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 34 to Day 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.
> 
> Heed the tags as this is one of the reasons why the rating has jumped from T to M.

Steve leaned back in his desk chair feeling...weirdly content. He tapped a few words on his computer, but nothing had a coherent thought process. Steve was stuck as to what to write in his report. He couldn’t write that he felt like he was in danger, because he didn’t, even fully aware of what The Ghost was capable of. Steve leaned forward on the desk, and sighed as he placed his hands over his eyes, as the command-line on the word document blinked ever so lightly. 

He felt too comfortable, and folded his arms and rested his head, letting sleep take him away.

*

“ _Steve,” Bucky whispered. “Steeeeve.”_

_“Hm?” Steve gave a small reply as he was taking notes in the library.  
_

_“Let’s ditch. I think Joey’s Pizza is having a two for one deal - you want in?”  
_

_“Dude, it’s like two p.m. We have thirty more minutes of school left- we can wait, I think.”  
_

_“It’s our free period! We’re not even supposed to be here - remember we have special privileges.”  
_

_“Yeah, and I have an APUSH test tomorrow - go without me!” Steve rolled his eyes, but Bucky kept sitting across the table. “What?”  
_

_“Come on, it’ll be a nice change. History’ll still be history even if you take a break,” Bucky started to zip up his backpack._

_“Do I have a say in this anymore?”  
_

_“No."  
_

_Steve sighed, and stared at Bucky. “Fine, but don’t make me regret this, Buck,” Steve closed his textbook and notebook and shoved it into his bag._

_“Who said anything about regret?”_

Steve woke up still at his desk as soon as the memory faded. He  checked his phone, noting that he dozed off for 3 hours. No texts, or any notifications out of the ordinary. He should probably just fall asleep.

*

Steve, for the past some odd years, would always wake up on time. He was a light sleeper - and would hear every car that passed by his old apartment, but today, it was quiet.

Which was strange for him, because it wasn’t usually this quiet when he woke up. He would hear the garbage truck, or at least a dog that would bark at somebody jogging past their place. 

Steve shot up in bed. 

He missed the window. Steve threw on his sweats to head to the mailbox.

He was looking for a package  _why the fuck would Bucky check is mail at the end of the -_

A hit.

The package contained information about the next hit.

Which was gone.

“ _Shit,”_ Steve swore under his breath.

“You okay?” At the sound of James’ voice Steve jumped a mile. “Oh shit, did I just scare you?” There was mild concern in James’ voice. Steve composed himself quickly before turning around to see the other man.

_No obvious gear, no guns out in the open...just a duffle bag._  “No - I mean yes, but I’m good, I swear. I’m just a little thrown off today...I woke up super late. Missed my running window.”

“It’s like 8am.”

“Super late for me I guess,” Steve put his hands on his hips, realizing that he ran out of his place without a shirt. “Where you headed?”

“Uh, Chicago. Got a construction gig - mostly supervising but I’ll take it over the hard labor,” James ran his hand through his hair. 

Steve idly took his newspaper. “A job is a job,” he shrugged. “Well, I gotta...get ready for today. Have a safe flight to the windy city.”

“Thanks,” James smiled softly. “Enjoy...uh, your apartment?” he laughed.

“I’ll try my best.” This was not Steve’s best work. “See ya.”

Steve got back to his place and plopped himself on his couch. He held the newspaper in his hand as he tapped it onto the coffee table. Minutes passed by of thinking of the interaction, trying to decipher if the way his muscles tugged on his cheek to smile one way or another was a tick, or if the way his rough hands slid over the fabric handle was a telling sign of something. 

Steve shook his head out of his thoughts and decided it was probably urgent to let her know that The Ghost was on his way for a job.

︾

Bucky lied to Stephen. He didn’t want to but _\- no harm done...right?_

He wished he was going to Chicago, but he got called into the ports of Lake Michigan via Toronto, silently wishing he could just be a tourist. But, as soon as the plan landed, Eli Crenshaw, Bucky’s cover, went right to the shipping container field and put two bullets in the head of his target.

Easy.

He disassembled the sniper he brought along, back into the box that it was shipped in via himself back in DC, and walked right back into the security gates, after showing his (fake) badge. After sending in the proof that he needed for the money transfer to be completed, Bucky drove to an empty field, burned the unlicensed weapon, and headed right back to Toronto to grab a drink. 

*

The bar Bucky chose was packed, but quiet. People silently sat sipping their drinks, and nodding along to the smooth jazz that was playing in the background. He sat at the empty seat in the middle of the bar, and waved the bartender over. “Can I have a soda with cranberry?”

“Sure,” the bartender nodded started pouring the drink.

“How many months?”

Bucky’s eyebrow cocked up. “What?”

“How many months sober?” A taller man sat down next to Bucky -  _Eli_  - and motioned the bartender for another glass of whatever he was sipping on. 

“Oh - sorry not many people notice...” Bucky tried to use a southern accent. “Seven months.”

“An American? That I did not expect,” the other man sat down at the chair next to him.

“You expect me to be wearin’ the Flag chugging two bears with this accent, huh,” Bucky put on a show.

“Honestly, yes,” The other man laughed. “Charlie,” he stuck out a hand.

“Eli,” Bucky accepted the handshake.

“Nice to meet you.”

“And you as well.”

They continued to talk, and talk with neither of them really touching their drinks. Charlie inched up closer, and Bucky accepted, as they slotted their legs in between each other. With the Bar being dark enough, Bucky grazed his knee up against the other man’s semi-erect dick. It was obvious what he wanted and, Bucky...the same. Bucky slapped down fifty dollars to pay for the drinks plus tip, and guided Charlie to the back of the building, where he pushed him to the wall, letting his body graze on top of the other’s while making out withe the other man. Bucky’s hand rested on Charlie’s ribcage, as he felt the smoothness of the other man’s face with the other. Charlie’s hand creeped it’s way to Bucky’s hip, pulling him in letting both of them feel each other's excitement. Bucky’s kisses traveled down his neck and onto his collarbone, sucking on the slightly salty skin, making sure it left a mark.

“How about we take things somewhere else,” Charlie panted, his mouth curling into a smile.

Something ticked in Bucky’s mind.  _No personal relationships_. 

Bucky slowed down and licked his lips after pulling . “Uh, no...actually. I gotta catch an early flight,” he said as he started to smooth out his clothes. He turned around and started to walk away.

Charlie was still up against the brick wall. “Can I at least get your number?”

Bucky still walking, turned around. “No,” he said as he winked, turned back around and let the night absorb him.

*

Bucky drove back to his motel, still semi-hard from his time with Charlie. Bucky kept shifting in his seat, adjusting himself so he wouldn’t become overwhelmed. He keyed himself into the room, and just sat on his bed alone.

_I should have just taken up on Charles? Chuck? Whatever. His offer. Could’ve helped me right now,_ Bucky thought.

He remembered the tuft of blond hair ( _dyed)_ that sat upon the man’s head. He leaned back on his bed and let his hand drift downward. His dick became harder when his flesh arm reached to the fabric above his area. He squeezed it, lightly, letting the rush of pleasure drift throughout his body. Bucky unbuttoned his pants and reached for his swollen dick. 

_No personal relationships,_ a phrase drifted through his mind.

The blond hair did too.

As well as callused hands.

His hand started moving, thinking that it wasn’t his. Remembering the look of the artist's paint encrusted hands, thinking about how it might feel on him. Bucky's breathing deepened and hand quickened, while he added some pressure when reaching the tip.

He came too fast. 

Just because of a pair of hands a some blond hair.

Bucky sighed as he grabbed a Kleenex to clean himself up. He walked over to the shower, letting the room fill up with steam. Bucky wiped the condensation off the mirror as he mumbled “No personal relationships,” right before he took his medication.

*

The plane ride back seemed longer than usual, but as he finally landed back in the States, his phone buzzed with the most grounding two words:  **transfer complete.**

*

Bucky got back to his apartment late - or early depending on the concept of time. His mailbox was full, but made sure to grab his newspapers and take the front page of the latest one. 

One day. 

He knew,  _knew_  that it was a short mission, and only one day did pass, however knowing the exactness of how long it was always kept him grounded. 

Bucky threw the extra papers down in the front of Stephen’s apartment, closed his doors and promptly went to bed.

*


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

Steve woke up with his alarm and got ready for his morning jog. He set up a route in the park - an easy path where the lights were still on, still kept the route private with not too many people that passed by. Steve stretched his body, and opened the door, only noticing the pile of newspapers on his welcome mat when he heard the crunch of papers underneath his shoe.

* 

He poured himself a cup of water once he came back. Steve took his phone out, already bored with the day. He flipped through his contacts and pressed the button to dial Maria.

It took a few rings before she picked up. “ _Hello?”_

_“_ Hey Maria, it’s Steve.”

“ _Good morning, Steve,”_ She didn’t sound so happy.

“Everything okay?”

“ _Not really - Chicago was a bust. No one there other than the fall tourists_.”

“Shit," Steve sighed, "Sorry about the false lead then.”

“ _Nothing to apologize for, Steve._ ”

“But I-”

“ _Don’t. You were following a lead - a false one - but one nonetheless.”_

“Should’ve guessed The Ghost was lying.”

" _Maybe, but he could’ve been telling the truth. We didn’t know until we followed what we had._ ”

“True, true.”

Maria paused. “ _So Steve, why the call? It's way too early for you to be doing...well anything. What gives? Everything okay?_ ”

Steve ran his hand through his hair. “Pretty much just going through the motions.”

“ _Do you need me to stop by?”_ Maria asked, “ _I can use my non-existent art skills to critique your paintings.”_

Steve laughed. “Actually, I can use a little company. I feel like I’m getting a bit hermit-y.”

“ _Yeah, I can use a break from this hell hole anyway. I’ll be there soon. Get your artsy flannel out and we can walk the town._ ”

“Great, I know the perfect spot.” 

*

Steve walked to the coffee shop that was nestled between a dog groomer and a noodle shop. He thanked his memory that he knew Maria’s easy coffee order of a medium roast black coffee, but for him, he couldn’t quite know what to get. The more Steve looked at the menu, the more he remembered what James said about this place and his own small promise.

“Anything else?” The barista asked.

“Two cappuccinos, one large and one small,” Steve handed the money to the cashier and once the coffees were done he walked back to his apartment.

*

Steve knocked on his next door neighbor’s apartment, and waited a few moments before he did so again, silently hoping he didn’t wake up-

James opened the door, hair messy, and eyes heavy from sleep. “Why are you always the one to wake me up?”

“I feel like that’s been my MO since I’ve been here huh?” Steve laughed. “My assistant is coming over today and I thought I’d treat her to some coffee. I heard you come in late last night, so," Steve maneuvered the coffee cup out of the tray, "I figured the biggest size would be best.”

“Wow, uh,” James took the coffee. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you get one yourself?”

“I did, but I’m going to wait till Maria. It’s a sipping drink and I feel like we have a lot to talk about. It’s going to be a long day.”

“Is that why you’re up at a stupidly early hour?”

“I guess,” Steve smiled.

“What artist talk do you have on the block today?” 

“More investor talk, maybe a gallery? Who knows.” Steve shrugged. 

“For the pieces with the newspapers right?”

“Yep,” Steve popped the last letter of the word.

“I’m gonna have to see those again. I didn’t take a good look when I tried to save you from the imaginary robbers.”

“They’re not nearly done, nor perfect, but maybe having another set of eyes look at them might get me out of this painting slump.” 

James leaned onto his door frame. “Sometimes it doesn’t have to be perfect to get the message across.”

“Wise one, you are.” Steve pointed.

“Yoda? Really?” James laughed. “I’ll let you get back to your assistant...Thanks for the coffee,” he raised his cup as to clink glasses.

“Anytime,” Steve smiled slightly and dipped his head. He felt heat rise up into his cheeks, and waved at James, as he watched the other man close his door.

Oh.

_Oh, shit._

His acting skills were good. He was able to sway people thinking he was somebody else, trick them into sharing details of their life for the sole purpose of gathering information. 

Steve acting skills,  _however_ _,_ weren’t that good to cause him to blush on command. 

*

 Steve opened his door and walked into his apartment, jumping when he saw Maria, waiting on the leather couch, reading one of his books.

“Is that fresh coffee?” Maria got up from her seat.

“Yeah, fresh from the local shop,” Steve said as he handed her the cup. “Black, medium roast, no sugar or milk.”

“Heaven,” Maria responded to the order. “Thanks. Let me guess you got the same wild and crazy order.” 

“Actually, I got a cappuccino today.”

Maria stared at Steve. “You never order those.”

“But Stephen Turner does.” Steve shrugged. “How about we get outside - there’s this great place in the park we can talk without hesitation?”

“Perfect.”

*

The weather was chilly. Fall had finally begin to move in, letting people finally sport their favorite light jackets and scarves. 

“So how's headquarters?” Steve sat down at an empty bench and Maria followed.

“Good, well I mean absolutely batshit crazy, but when is it not?” Maria sipped her coffee. “Your crew misses you.”

“I’m sure, especially since I basically fell off the face of the Earth. Do they know about this?”

“Still a negative. As far as they know, you quit and took your savings to Fiji for an extended unemployment.”

“Did they really believe that?”

Maria laughed. “Absolutely not, but that’s what we keep telling them. How are  _you_ , though.”

“I mean this case is feeling like an extended vacation, almost, with also trying to befriend an assassin. Frustrating because I can’t really interact with the real world outside of the fake instagram, so I’m trying to just re-adjust, and not thinking about how I’m going to re-adjust after this is over.”

“You can’t think of the future, Steve. You have to think of what’s in front of you.”

“True,” Steve leaned back in the bench and watched the pigeons fly onto the grass. “So, I’ve been keeping my cover, as you know, but...”

“I usually hate what comes after the word but,” Maria deadpanned.

“But, the only way to keep the rising fame of Stephen Turner going is if I get a huge investor and a gallery showing,” Steve paused. “I might have told The Ghost as to why I’m meeting with you today.”

“Oh no.”

“Was that a bad idea?” 

“No, it’s fine. It’s just...I only know one person that would be a good match for an  _investor.”_

︾

Bucky spent the morning, flipping through Netflix, not really finding anything to find something to latch on to.  He got coffee from the last person he would expect - Turner. Stephen. Stephen Turner. Bucky thanked him as he turned away, but not fast enough to see the growing blush that ran down Stephen’s neck.

Running down underneath his shirt.

Bucky cleared his throat and clicked on the newest released season of Riverdale. A few episodes in, his phone picked up a notification from Stephen’s art account. His moleskin opened to a new drawing, on the picnic tables from the park. A drawing of Yoda appeared with the caption ‘ _Wise one, you are.’_

Bucky smiled. 

*


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 38 to Day 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

Yet again, there was knocking on the door, and Bucky wanted to punch the person who was behind it. Yet again, it was the blond artist who ran his hand through his hair. Bucky practically ripped the door open. 

" _What."_

“Are you okay?” Stephen paused. “I...I can come back at a different time...or?”

“No, no..sorry. It’s just been a rough few days,” Bucky ran a hand over his face. “Jet lag is unusually worse for only a 2 hour difference.”

“I should have figured...Do you want to see my paintings?” Stephen pointed with his thumb to his place. “We can totally change it to another day,” he continued with his voice trailing off at the end. 

“Today is perfect.” Bucky forced a smile that warded off his panicked anger.

*

“Welcome back to the studio.”

“Nice to be here under better circumstances,” Bucky chuckled, and Stephen did so also. Stephen started to pull out the canvas, all four which were a mix between finished and half-way done.

“Wow,” Bucky stated, impressed to say the least. “This is...this is really good.”

“You think so?” Stephen smiled. 

“Yeah,” Bucky crouched down. “I mean - look, this one? The way the words come out of the hole? That’s amazing. No wonder the investor has an eye on these.”

“Thank you, James. Makes me feel better about the whole gallery situation.”

“You didn’t get it?” 

“No...I got it,” Stephen nervously chuckled. 

“Well how about that. My annoying newspaper laden neighbor got something finally going for him.”

“It’s a blessing.”

“More like pure talent. Bucky shrugged. The room felt warm. Comfortable. Pleasant. “Thank you for allowing me into your studio.” Bucky shoved his covered arm into his pocket. 

“You’re welcome. It’s almost like an artist’s studio is like going into their personal journal. Fears. Ideologies. Stupid shit that made them laugh,” Stephen paused and looked at the paintings. 

“Desires.” Bucky said softly.

“Yeah.” 

There was a long silence before Stephen cleared his throat. Do you want any water? Or anything else? I have some off-brand ginger ale.”

“Off brand ginger-ale?”

“It’s good, I promise.

*

Bucky sat at the kitchen bar in Stephen’s apartment, sipping the ginger ale out of a glass. “Thank you for letting me scope out your studio,”

“You have to know the layout just in case next time some robbers somehow sneak in.”

“You’re never letting that go are you?”

“Nope.” Stephen leaned on the counter. “Anyways, it was fun. I’m happy you like the pieces,” Stephen rubbed his beard.

“When is the show date for the gallery?”

“I didn’t get a full time frame. My manager is still trying to get a timeline together on those numbers. We’re hoping for the end of next month.”

“So it’s just more time in this apartment, for you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Stephen laughed.

“Well,” Bucky breathed softly through is nose and grabbed a napkin and wrote down his phone number, “If you need some more company, and since I’m somehow still your only friend, here’s my number,” Bucky slid the napkin to the other side. “I don’t want to hold the rest of your day up. Thanks for the private show.”

*

Bucky flipped the pen through his fingers. He hadn’t been this anxious about something so inconsequential since before he joined the army. Some girl in Berlin, who was too nice for her own good, he remembered. Before that, it was those random high school hookups in the back stairwell, telling his friend Steve his escapades, and having him say back “ _I don’t want to hear about your...your...I don't even know what to call them, Buck,”_ with his blue eyes squinting with laughter, and mouth turning upwards. 

His phone buzzed.

_Any chance you need a running buddy?_

*

Bucky was a world class assassin. He had over a hundred confirmed kills, and was not afraid of anything that came his way, except when it came to wake up calls. Bucky skipped the shower in the morning - how 5:30 was an acceptable time to wake up was cruel. He got his running clothes on, and got outside to knock on his neighbor’s door. Stephen opened his door and smiled.

“Oh how the tables have turned. You ready?”

“Ready as I will ever be for this early in the morning,” Bucky managed to talk.

They kept an even pace, not going too fast or slow. They ran through the park, having the manufactured lights from the side cascade on their moving bodies. They kept running for another twenty minutes, through downtown, and back to the apartment complex. 

“You do this shit  _every morning?”_  Bucky breathed heavily, placing his hands behind his neck. 

“Yeah,” Stephen leaned on the brick wall by the door.

“You’re a fucking masochist, Turner.” 

Stephen laughed, causing him to cough and wheeze slightly. Bucky immediately went pat his back. It seemed oddly familiar - not only the action, but going to Stephen’s side to ease the cough. It reminded him of something done a time and half ago, with someone that lived in a previous life.

_Steve paused his walking before normalizing his breathing. “Yeah...yeah I’m good. I’m not dyin’ on you yet, Buck.”_

“ _Good. You’re my only friend left,” Bucky pushed his hair back, and nudged Steve’s shoulder with his hand._

_“James?”  
_

“James?” Stephen snapped his fingers in front of Bucky’s face. “Are you okay?”

“Hm? Oh, shit. Sorry," Bucky rubbed his eyes, "I zone out some times. "Also, it’s still way too early for me,” Bucky forced a smile. He placed the key in the door to the building. “Let’s get inside before the we catch something from the wind.”

 *

Bucky took his mail from the cubby and stopped at his door, and Stephen did the same. 

“I’m not going to say that this run was fun, because it wasn’t. Too early, too cold, and not enough coffee. But weirdly enough, I’d uh, like to do this again,” Bucky scratched the side of his head.

“Yeah?”

“Not tomorrow. I need to sleep. How about if I’m not on a job, once a week?”

“I’ll take it,” Stephen smiled. It felt, to Bucky, genuine. Not like the times before weren’t, however the light in Stephen’s eyes were as bright as the sun was shining. Bucky silently hoped he would see that sun again, sooner rather than later.

Bucky jumped right into the shower as he got into his place. He didn’t look at his phone, but sitting there waiting for him was a message from his contact letting him know another job was in tow.

*


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 45 to Day 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

Bucky folded up his artillery and threw it onto the back of a moving pick-up truck near the highway. He felt like his body went through a whirlwind of energy. Between waiting for the target to get to the desired location, and just wishing  _the dickbag would just stand fucking still and maybe sit down? Jesus Christ he is like the Tilt-A-Whirl at Coney Island._ Bucky got the guy, from two buildings away, dead center between his eyes. A specialty of sorts, as he was basically advertised to. He was grateful that the fact that the hit was somewhere warm. 

Bucky’s mailbox was full when he returned. Six days, according to the newspapers, had passed. It had been too long for him not to realize the amount of time that passed. Bucky dropped off the bulk of papers in front of Stepehen’s door, opened his apartment door, and removed his clothes, down to his boxers and fell asleep. 

It had felt like blissful, quiet hours before Bucky awoke to a slight metronomic buzzing. 

_hey. thanks for the newspapers._

_hope your trip and job wasn’t too bad._

Bucky groaned.  _At least there wasn’t any more knocking,_ Bucky thought.

**_it was too hot down in texas._ **

_Texas?! damn, what’d they have you doing down there?”_

**_asphalt_ _work. even hotter, than just standing in 100 degree heat._ **

_gross. at least you're back in chilly maryland._

_**how did it get colder in one week, again?** _

_it can only be magic._

_**truth. hows ur paintings?** _

_3/4 of the way done with the set. 3/4's the way done with the last one._

_**you work fast, turner.** _

_your praise kick-started me back._

Bucky paused before writing something he would regret.

**_glad to hear I’m a positive influence._ **

Bucky saw the three dots appear on the messenger, and disappear quickly, like the other man was thinking too much. He clicked his phone to close, and threw it on his nightstand. He grabbed a cup of tea, to decompress, and walked back to his bedroom. A notification appeared on his phone.

_you really are!_

_*_

He woke up at 5am for the run the next day. Bucky still hated it...a lot. It was annoying to hear that alarm so early during his days off but it was easier to awaken this time around - probably because the past week he had to be awake around the same time to catch his target.

Both Bucky and Stephen took the same route as the run before, and still kept the same pace. Bucky’s mind was somewhere else - somewhere back watching his target's lifeless body twitch, and bleed out on the asphalt, watching the people scramble around the target, trying to see who the shooter was - and didn’t see the squirrel right in front of him. He tripped and lost his footing and managed to fall right on top of Stephen, on the grass. 

Bucky, still breathing heavily from the run, stared straight into the artist's green eyes. Stephen only managed to grunt when falling, and still staring at Bucky, he licked his lips, before starting to talk.

“You okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” Bucky stated.

“I’m good - granted I still have a - what are you like four hundred pounds - on top of me-”

“Oh ,shit,” Bucky climbed off of Stephen and brushed off the dirt, hoping his slight erection from laying on top of him didn’t show. He gave a hand to help the other man up.

 “You’re okay though?” Stephen asked.

“Yeah - sorry about that...”

“Nature can be scary,” Stephen laughed and they continued their run home.

*

Bucky grabbed his mail and waited for Stephen to do the same, before they walked to their apartments. 

“If it makes a difference, I needed to pause from the run,” Stephen stated.

“Stop lying and trying to make me feel better. The squirrel had an advantage,” Bucky laughed. 

“I’m not lying, I swear. Scouts honor,” Stephen held up the boy scout salute.

“Yeah, and I’m Santa Claus.” 

Stephen laughed. “Same time next week, James?”

“If I’m not laying down asphalt in the middle of nowhere, I’m in. Also, just call me Bucky. James always felt too formal.”

“Bucky?” Stephen leaned on the corner near his door. “Where does that come from?”

“My middle name is Buchanan.” 

“Oh, huh. Interesting. Could’ve sworn that was a nickname for Buckets,” Stephen laughed.

“I mean this in the friendliest way possible - you’re an idiot.” 

Stephen laughed and keyed himself into the apartment. “Have a good day, Bucky.”

“You too.”

*

Bucky’s mind kept circling around to when he tripped as he rested on his couch flipping through Netflix. The embarrassment was true and real, but Bucky kept going back to the one thing that well...the other’s man’s body felt sturdy and strong, and just so  _right._

Bucky placed his palms over his eyes to create some pressure, and groaned out of frustration. 

︾

There was still some dirt, and small leaves still attached to Steve’s clothes that didn’t shake off when he got up from the ground. He had sent out an email regarding that the Ghost had been in Texas, and silently hoped that it wasn’t another lie to Maria and the team at headquarters.

The email took too long to write. Steve kept deleting and reworking paragraphs to try and keep his attention away from one thing. A distraction from his semi-hard-on that come back after his run.

When Bucky was laying on him for what what felt like hours, it just felt so...nice. He wanted to hug him - wanted to do so, so much more. Bucky’s face was mere  _inches_ from his, and wanted, really truly wanted to his hold Bucky’s face with his hands.

The man that ran with him was not The Ghost, but Bucky. The freedom from whatever held him back was lost in the run, letting the person Steve know shine.

Steve met Bucky when he was 15 - Bucky 16  and one grade up. The next day from when they met, Bucky ran up to him at lunch to eat together was when Steve realized he had a crush on him.The day after, when Steve saw Bucky locking lips with Stacey Jenkins near the vending machine was the day Steve realized that Bucky would never like Steve back.

...and Steve just lived with it.

There were moments, though, when Bucky would bring him soup when Steve was sick, from their favorite take-out place  and watch a crappy 90s action flick and Bucky would always wave off the question if he had a date.

Or the time when Bucky would get into fights with the assholes who would make fun of Steve. Steve would bring ice for Bucky’s face, cooling off the bruises that would show up on Bucky’s face. A warm smile would return, whenever the ice would be applied - and to just see Bucky happy was all that Steve needed.

The second time he would apply ice to Bucky’s injuries, the smile returned, and as Steve noticed, lasted a few seconds too long that he would consider friendly. 

It was these little moments that Steve held dear.

*

Steve blinked back into the present. There was something he couldn’t quite get out of his head. When Bucky fell on him...there was no mistake that he was at least semi-erect, but remembering that moment - Bucky was stiff too.

Steve’s dick twitched at the thought. He couldn’t deny that was attracted to him - his lean but fit torso, _the strong muscles underneath..._

Steve pushed himself off of his chair at his desk, and remembered what The Ghost was capable of, and walked to the bathroom to turn on his shower. Once in, he let the warm water cascade over his body, letting his mind drift, and allowing himself to become fully hard.

He glided his hands over himself slowly - giving pressure at the top of the shaft. He imagined rough hands that weren’t his own, moving slowly, while the other man would kiss at the nape of his neck, slowly moving down until the other man would envelop him in his mouth. The image he created in his head caused Steve to feel pressure build up in his lower abdomen. Steve increased the speed of his hand, imagining the metal arm putting just enough pressure on his hip,  and the rest of his hand on Steve’s bare ass.

What it would feel like to have Bucky taking him whole.

The last thought tipped Steve over the edge, cumming with a forceful grunt. He put one hand on the wet tile, letting his breathing center, and let the warm water fall onto his back.

_Shit._

_*_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now over on dreamwidth! I only have a few posts up, but I'll be using it as a writing journal where I'll be talking about writing stuff I guess? Fandom stuff too. Feel free to follow along if you want!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel

Steve was at the point of the operation where it just had to keep moving...no matter what, while still remembering he couldn’t get attached. 

He couldn’t forget that Bucky was really  _The Ghost._

But, Steve also couldn’t forget the fact that he pleasured himself in the shower, the previous day, to the image of the metal arm hugging his ass _\- with his lips over Steve’s dick, locking eyes as he_ -

The microwave beeped as it brought Steve back to his reality.

*

Steve spent most of it answering emails from a private server, trying to send out any reports that he missed. It took him all day, and saw the light from the other room go from bright to a grey. He just stared at the computer screen all day. 

It made his eyes tired. 

The unmistakable knock on his front door. -  it was a pattern he heard over and over again - echoed.  Steve didn’t even have to look into the peephole to know who it was. 

“One second,” He called out as he ran up to the door. He had to look as though he wasn’t just staring off into space. Steve grabbed his brushes by the bristles, not caring that paint had run over them, wiped it on his jeans and a little on his face to show that he cared  _just enough_  about his looks but at the same time looked like he was too busy. He walked back over to the door and opened it trying to act at least a little bit surprised.

“Oh, hey there,” Steve gave a small smile, trying to be as calm, cool, and collected as possible. 

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Bucky asked, hesitant.

“No, no. I, uh, I’m just finishing up this one section of the canvas. Do...do you want to watch?”

“Sure, I guess.” Bucky shrugged. 

*

Steve had the newspapers cut to shreds before, hoping that his meticulous idea of what he wanted the painting to express to pay off. Steve kneeled back down on the floor as Bucky sat in the chair near him, just watching him glue ripped letters onto the fabric. 

“So what is the last piece trying to express?” Bucky asked as Steve cocked an eyebrow.

“You’re my assistant now?” Steve joked, and Bucky chuckled. “Media frenzy and how it can become a storm...and so on and so forth,” Steve sighed. “Thus the wave.”

Bucky was quiet and Steve scratched his beard, looking idly down at the floor. he noticed one clipping that he managed to forget to put away the one that he didn’t want The Ghost to see.

**_SHARP EYED KILLER ON THE LOOSE IN TEXAS_ **

Steve walked over to grab another brush, kneeling on the clipping, hoping that the other man wouldn’t notice. 

“Is it that bad?” Steve asked. 

“Hm?” Bucky seemed to space out slightly. “No, not at all, Steve...It’s really amazing.”

“Thanks,” Steve sighed, and leaned back onto his heels. “So, I’m just guessing that you’re not actually here to just watch me paint on letters,” Steve wiped a small bead of sweat off of his forehead. Bucky chuckled.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to head downtown to grab a drink or something? Take a break from the on coming tsunami.” The offer was out. Steve chuckled and scratching his beard. Bucky continued, “The painting will still be here after a couple of beers.”

“Okay, okay. It needs to dry anyway. Let me just get out of this shirt - it smells of paint and B.O.”

*

Bucky sat in the kitchen, as Steve observed, tapping his fingers on the marble. Steve grabbed a new shirt from his room and went to the bathroom near the kitchen, shirtless. He wanted to know - to know if  _something_  was caught in the Ghost’s stoic face. 

“I just gotta get this paint off and I’ll be ready to head out - give me five minutes? You can have an off brand ginger ale.”

“One off brand ginger ale? I feel as though I’m Dobby and you just gave me a sock,” Bucky referenced.

Steve just laughed, rolled his eyes and continued walking. There was normal eye contact, and nothing out of the ordinary except...except he had a rolled up napkin in his hand.  _Now,_ Steve thought,  _that’s just a crumpled napkin._

_Remember,_ Nick Fury’s voice drifted through his mind,  _something can only be observable fact once something is done out of the ordinary._

Bucky folded napkins when he was finished with them. Strange, yes, but it was always something he had done since high school. Bucky only crumpled his napkins when he was frustrated or angry, and he certainly wasn’t angry.

*

They both walked downtown avoiding the surged Lyft fares and the inevitable debate as to who would be the designated driver. 

“How about here?” Bucky stopped in front of a lit bar. 

“Uh -” Steve sucked air between his teeth, “My last drunken escapade was there. D’you know Sharon?”

“The blonde chick that is behind the bar? I mean, I’m sure that there is more to her than just being blonde...”

‘Yes, the blonde chick,” Steve laughed, “She asked me if we wanted to continue our conversation after the bar closed, and I declined. She wasn’t too happy.”

“Now we  _definitely_ have to go into this bar. I wouldn’t be to happy if the one, the only, Stephen Turner denied me a lay in bed, either,” Bucky’s eyes went wide. “I mean,” Bucky cleared his throat. 

“I take it as a compliment.” Steve smiled.

*

They talked for a few hours, of things not of importance. Everything from Netflix shows to species of frogs - they covered it all. The older bartender placed the black book between them, after they said that they were done for the evening. Steve started to reach for the bill, but Bucky swiped it from his grasp.

“I asked you out for drinks, so I’m the one paying for it.”

“Is that how it is?” Steve leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and looked over at Bucky.

“That’s how it is.”

“I owe you then. I got the next round.”

*

They both walked home, feeing slightly buzzed. Even though there was a chill in the air, Steve led Bucky through the long route of the park, letting the lights guide their path back to the apartment complex. 

“Thanks for tonight...for getting me out of that place. I feel as though all I do is run and paint,” Steve noted.

“S’not a bad thing,” Bucky grinned. “For one thing running is healthy, and the painting is your job. If I had a normal 8 hour shift every day, I would just be sitting on a chair typing away. You just use those hours to paint. Same difference,” Bucky shrugged.

“You and Maria have become my two philosophers,” Steve laughed. 

“Call me Plato, I guess.” 

Bucky slowed his pace, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Everything okay?” Steve asked, slightly concerned, as he turned around to face him. 

“Uh,” Bucky anxiously grinned. "It's just hard to always ask these questions." Bucky walked up to Steve, slowly, and stopped right in front of him, placing his hands in his pockets. “So. I had a really fun time tonight...and all the other short times we spent together, running, etcetera, etcetera...God I sound like a teenager right now,” Bucky nervously laughed and extended his head back in frustration.

Steve knew exactly what he was asking, but there were two sides to this situation. Remember that this is an undercover operation and that the man in front of him has killed  _a lot_  of people and that he is only getting closer to him to bring him into headquarters. Or, remember that this was his friend from high school that he hasn’t seen in some odd years, and seeing him become this specimen that stood before him and kiss him right on the lips.

There was a third option - to blur the lines. 

When Steve placed his hand on Bucky’s waist, and heard the sharp intake of breath, he pulled in the other man in, and kissed him right on the lips.

Steve, in the back of his mind, guessed he was going for option number 3.

The kiss felt like hours, even though in reality it was maybe only half a minute. Bucky leaned out of the kiss, but not out of Steve’s touch.

“Was...was that too much? I kind of just kissed you without asking and I -” Steve started to ramble.

“You over think a lot,” Bucky said softly.

“Sue me, I’m an artist. It’s in my job description,” Steve replied with a smile on his face. Bucky leaned in again and slotted his lips with his. It was a little bit more enthusiastic than their kiss before. Steve could feel his beard rub against Bucky’s face - the roughness making Bucky’s breath hitch slightly. Bucky pressed up against Steve more, placing his hands on his waist, and deepened the kiss.

Steve broke the kiss again, but not before gliding his hands across Bucky’s chin and neck, feeling the toughness of his stubble. Bucky ran his arm from Steve’s waist and to his torso.

“So,” Bucky started.

“So,” Steve echoed.

“We’re still in the park.”

“We’re still in the park,” Steve echoed again.

*

They walked back to their building, not touching each other, just letting the city noises fill the air between them. When they got back, Steve opened up his door before leaning on his door frame, watching Bucky do the same. 

“Hey,” Steve said softly as to only have Bucky hear. The other man slowly turned around. “Thank you for tonight.” 

“I hope the drinks don't affect your painting skills.”

“The kiss certainly will,” Steve smirked and Bucky softly chuckled. Steve stepped out from his door frame, letting it close, and walked the two steps across the hall to Bucky. Steve ran his hand down Bucky’s torso, letting it rest on his waist, trailing his thumb up and down his hip bone. “I had fun tonight, Bucky.” Bucky turned his chin up to place kiss right to Steve’s mouth, and Steve accepted, smiling. 

“Me too,” Bucky said softly. 

*


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and four other agents receive an email from Maria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel

Natasha Romanoff woke to the  _increasingly annoying alarm_  that filled her room, at 6am that morning. Groaning, she pushed her covers off, and went immediately to her kitchen to pour a large cup of coffee to start the day. 

*

It’s not like Natasha  _hated_ working, in fact it was just the opposite. It was more the fact that she hated the idea that people were still not  _fucking owning up to where the fuck her friend was_. Natasha gripped tighter on the steering wheel, not listening to the NPR report, as her mind drifted to all the possibilities. 

She knew he was on a mission - all of Maria’s lack of communication made it clear that Steve did not go on a nice long vacation to Fiji, nor did he quit. Steve wouldn’t last this long in a place exactly designed to do nothing, and as much as he would roll his eyes or curl his hands into fists due to the stupid shit that other agents would do that infuriated him to no end - he wouldn’t quit. Plus his desk, though covered in a thin layer of dust, would have been cleared out and replaced with a mid-level agent within a matter of days if Steve was fired. Fury was ruthless and ran a tight ship - nothing would have been overlooked as big as not replacing somebody else. 

Natasha kept running the facts in her head, letting the sites become immune in front of her. Pulling into her parking space seemed to happen a lot quicker than she remembered. She just sat there in her car, with the heat running, and the thermos in her hand, letting the facts run through her mind again.

And again.

_and again..._

Natasha was startled when Sam tapped on the window. 

“Hey, good morning,” Sam said behind the closed window, and motioned for her to bring it down, in which Natasha complied. “Are you coming into the office where there’s heat or you becoming one with winter?” 

“Just enjoying the amount of time outside of the office than in it, as much as possible,” Natasha said as she sipped her coffee. 

“Going over your theories again, huh?” Sam guessed.

‘Yeah,” Natasha looked over at the man opposite her. “Ugh, fine. You convinced me to earn my daily check,” Natasha rolled her eyes, pulled her window up and got out of her car, and pulled the jacket closer to her body, to fight the chill in the air.

*

Natasha got to her desk, and looked at the calendar. She took out his red Sharpie and cross off yesterday. Tapping her pen on the desk, Natasha booted up her computer and opened up her files to work another stupidly tedious day.

She leaned back in her chair, looking at Steve’s desk. 

Empty.

“Earth to ‘Tasha?” A hand waved in front of his vision. 

“Hm?” Natasha shook her head, “How long have you been here?” Natasha asked Clint.

“Uh, probably like a minute or so,” Clint took a bite from his apple. 

 She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sorry, I’m a little extra...out of it this morning.” 

“It’s okay,” Clint leaned on her cubical desk. “Still worried about Steve?”

“Worried, mad, all of the above.”

Clint leaned in, a smile washing across his face and whispered, “You think they’re using Steve for government experiments?”

“We are the government,” Natasha rolled her eyes, smiling slightly, “Plus, that would probably happen in the Pentagon, not here.” 

“You drive a persuasive argument.” 

“He’s on a mission, I’m sure of it,” Natasha un-clicked her pen, “I’m getting my answer today, no matter what.” 

*

Lunch time came and went, and Natasha found her best window of opportunity. She was seconds from pushing her chair from the desk, and storming to either Fury’s or Hill’s office before a notification popped up on her computer.

She clicked the email and found an answer to something that she had been waiting all along.

**From:              maria.hill@starksecure.com**

**To: natasha.a.romanoff@starksecure.com ,**

**samuel.t.wilson@starksecure.com ,**

**clinton.f.barton@starksecure.com ,**

**anthony.e.stark@starksecure.com**

**BC:        nicholas.j.fury@starksecure.com**

**Subject: Side Case - One Night Only**

_There is a future upcoming case that I will need all four of you to attend. More information to be obtained in my office._

_10 minutes._

_\- M_

Clint stood up from his desk and peered over to Natasha’s. 

“Hey, did you just get an email from Maria?”

“Yes,” Natasha stood up, grabbed her mug, “and I think we’re finally finding out what happened to Steve.”

*

The four of the agents sat in the small waiting room near Maria’s office.

Sam clicked his phone off, and placed it inside his jacket. “I still can’t believe Maria wants Tony on an op,” he sighed. 

“Don’t think I have the skills to charm my way into a room?” Tony chimed in to the conversation as he was walking up the hallway, while eating a bag of trail mix.

“Usually, the head the IT department doesn’t get picked for this kind of stuff, that’s all.” 

“...and usually agents spend less than sixty percent of their time on Facebook at work, but what do I know,” Tony popped a few raisins into his mouth, “I’m just the head of the FBI’s IT department.”

Maria opened her door, and waved everybody into her room. “If we can stop bickering for 5 minutes I need all of you to listen to me so I can tell you what’s going on.”

“Bickering?” Tony raised his eyebrow, “We were just practicing for your audition for the next  _True Life: I’m a FBI Agent_ series. A really gritty day to day look at what our agents are doing online.”

“If you got a t.v. show, I think your ego would blow up out of your head, Stark,” Natasha muttered.

“Are we ready to talk? Or is everyone just going to stand around?” Maria asked.

*

Maria took out her notepad, clicked a pen, and began speaking. “So, before I go into a big spiel about what exactly is going on with the operation - Steve is fine. He has been on a mission for about a month and a half or so.”

“I  _knew it,”_ Natasha said quietly. 

“He has been on a deep undercover op trying to bring The Ghost in for questioning...but there’s been a hitch - that was...partially caused by myself and some shoddy improvisation.”

“I think we gotta get the UCB herald team for some more training then,” Clint muttered.

“If we can keep these comments until  _after_ the meeting, that would be wonderful,” Maria paused, “Anyway, we need some extra players for one night. An investor, some college friends, etcetera.”

“And we’re the perfect team?” Sam questioned. 

“Yes.”

“Where has been Steve been hiding out?” Natasha questioned. 

“Falls Church.”

“He’s been in the area  _the whole fucking time?”_ Natasha’s anger rose, but was controlled. 

“He’s that good in blending in, I guess,” Maria shrugged, “Look, I need to assign you roles for this. Steve’s decided he would be an artist, of all professions, in this case, and I mentioned  a gallery, and investors...” she pinched the bridge of her nose, “Stark have you done any undercover work?”

“Undercover or under the covers, because I definitely have done the latter,” Tony commented, smirking.

“Jesus Christ, why do I make my job harder than I need to,” Maria sighed, hoping for a vacation at the end of this operation, “So, Stark...you’ll just be...you, but under a different name. One of the two big time Investors - Natasha, you’ll be the other. Sam, Steve’s old college friend and you’ll scope out the area before the three of them come into the building.”

“What about me?” Clint asked.

“Body guard.”

“Sweet,” Clint responded with a smile, “Easiest cover to be.”

*


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 48 to Day 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

Steve woke up the next morning, with his lips still numb from his kiss with Bucky. He didn’t want to log the encounter...he didn’t want the private moment to become such a spectacle by the Agency. He wanted to keep it and have it be his own memory before he would turn The Ghost into questioning, and let the memory became sour.

Steve had every right to feel bad. It was a lie, a rouse, and his enjoyment was all manufactured to achieve a single goal. However, every time he thought about that kiss, that moment of time where he and Bucky were together. The feelings that melted through his body were definitely not fake. 

After his run and his standard morning coffee, Steve toyed with his phone.  He didn’t get any texts, and felt as though maybe Bucky made a mistake and was shying away from him. Steve tapped Bucky’s contact and called him. He listed through the few rings and truly hoped that it wouldn’t go to voicemail.

 “ _Hello?”_  Bucky’s voice was more awake that it usually was at this time.

“Hey, it’s me Stephen...why do I always seem like I catch you at a bad time?” 

“ _Probably because you’re up before the chickens.”_

Steve laughed. “I’m not really here for getting called out like that so early in the morning,  _but_  I was just checking to see if you wanted to join me in visiting the gallery today? I have to make some notes about where the pieces should go...maybe we can grab lunch?”

Bucky was silent for a few seconds longer than usual. “ _Yeah, that would be really nice. Is eleven okay?”_

 _“_ It’s perfect. Meet you right outside,” Steve made his voice smile with anticipation, before ending the call. He tried to return back to neutral but that fleeting moment never left his heart.

Maria gave Steve the address for the Gallery two days ago, along with an email of attendees. Reading it, he noticed a small gaggle of people with asterisks by their names and a post script at the bottom.

   _S -_

_These four people are our agents and people you will definitely recognize._

_Natasha (A*) and Tony (B*) will be your investors._

_Sam (C*) will be your friend visiting for the night._

_Clint (D*) Will be the investor’s bodyguard._

_Make good choices._

_They’re there for backup and to make sure nothing goes awry in a public setting._

_Safety, and I’m sure that they’ll want to see you after these past few months._

_A little treat I guess?_ _I’ll be there too, probably drinking too many glasses of champagne_.

- _M_

*

The weather was still nice for the beginning of November, only a semi-light jacket was needed as Bucky and Steve walked downtown to the gallery. It was small and slim, but the windows at the front provided more than enough light that reached it’s way back. 

“Stephen Turner?” The gallery’s assistant called out behind her desk as she stood up.

“Yes, hi, you must be Angie?”

“Angie Martinelli, the one and only!” She smiled, putting her hand out to shake and Steve accepted. “You must be Stephen’s....” She didn’t want to presume.

“Uh, good friend. Bucky.” 

“Nice to meet you, good friend Bucky,” She started walking back to the back of the gallery. “The Walls in the main room have been cleared,” she went through an open doorway, “For your four piece set and your original art.”

The room mirrored the main hall but seemed so much bigger without the paintings hung. Angie took out a small stack of post-it notes and handed them to Steve. He flipped through the blank sheets before taking out a pen and writing small notes, and put them on the empty space. Steve bounced from wall to wall placing each Post-It meticulously, with Angie near by writing notes. Steve placed and replaced the small squares on the wall for almost a half hour, as Bucky just watched nearby. Every so often Bucky would, tilt his head, just studying him, like he was a exhibit. It was unnerving and fluttering all the same.

“I think that’s it,” Steve smiled. “Can I bring my work next week or so?”  

“That’s perfect,” Angie smiled, “We’ll get the lighting set up then as well. Maybe come over closer to six or seven at night?”

“I’ll put it in my calendar. Nice working with you Angie, I’ll see you next week,” Steve shook Angie’s hand and walked over to Bucky. “I hope I didn’t bore you to death? This is probably the most tedious thing I’ve had to do with this whole...painting process.”

“This is going to sound creepy but, I enjoyed watching you,” a sheepish smile washed across Bucky’s face. 

“Let’s get lunch before they close the place on us.”

*

The restaurant felt big, as not many people had lunch during the middle of the day - if anything most people were at their office jobs, or staying inside to relax. The waitress grabbed both of their orders and placed the drinks in front of them. 

“So,” Steve said, trying to break the soft tension. 

Bucky just laughed. “So,” he echoed. 

“You liked the process at the gallery? Truly?”

“Yeah, really. Watching the gears turn in your head was somethin’ else. A work of mastery.”

“I’m no Leonardo DaVinci.”

“Close to it if I say so,” Bucky said, and Steve could only chuckle. “I mean it!” Steve’s smile spread to Bucky. 

They ate their meals in peace - with shared smiled and short conversations. By the end, the waitress brought the check and both reached for it. Their hands touched. Steve knew that underneath the cover it was Bucky’s metal arm, but it just didn’t matter to him. It was still a part of him. 

It was still Bucky. 

“Last time, I promised I would pay for the round,” Steve raised his eyebrows.

“Didn’t think you were serious.”

“...and I didn’t think we would make out, yet,” Steve gestured to nothing in particular, “I cannot stop thinking your mouth on mine.”

Bucky removed his hand from the bill, and placed it to the side but Steve kept his hand on Bucky’s. 

“How about I get the next one then?”

“I’d like that,” Steve said smiling. 

*

They reached their floor and stopped before heading back inside. Steve stepped forward to Bucky, placing his hand on his waist, smiling.

“Thank you for coming with me today...I really enjoyed our time,” Steve said, rubbing small circles on Bucky's hip bone. Bucky was happy - Steve could  _see_ that it was just a front. He could see that his happiness was only surface deep. Bucky's eyes told a grand story. 

“I did too...but I have to go. I have a doctor’s appointment today, in about...an hour and the bus takes a bit to get there. Can we continue this,” Bucky referred to their closeness, “another time?”

“I’d like that,” Steve smiled, and allowed Bucky to enter his place, and close the door, as Steve just stood there trying to figure out why Bucky just...shut down.

︾

Bucky closed the door to his place. 

_No personal relationships._

_No_

_personal_

_relation_ _ships._

The words kept cycling through his head. It wasn’t something he remembered telling himself - but something that felt like he always knew. Bucky wanted to be with Stephen. He was the dominant force that helped quell the anxious buzzing that resonated through him. 

The motto helped on missions - he would be the person for only a short amount of time, and one they were done, Bucky would go back to his daily tasks. However in this instance, it really didn’t help when he wanted time alone with another person.

Bucky’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

**you’re needed. a longer job awaits.**

_*_

Three weeks.

That's how long the job was.

When Bucky got the message for his next assignment, he didn’t think that it would be that long. Maybe a week and a half, maybe something out in Alaska. Not three weeks and a trip to Europe. He moved from underground groups of people to scientific facilities that no one but government officials knew of. Bucky would take out scientists, and dismantling rogue units, because that was what he was told to do.

He was following orders, and he just couldn't say no.

Moving from country to country, and staying in run down Hostels weren’t his favorite, especially since most of them were filled with drunken American tourists that only wanted to party and not to sleep. He felt like all the energy escaped when the messages told him he was done and had completed his task perfectly. He was done for now.

The jolt of the plane landing shook Bucky out of his memories. His phone lit up with notifications with texts from Stephen asking where he was after leaving without notice, if he was mad a him, or even sporadic the “Hey”.  The messages ended a week and a half ago and replaced with notifications from Stephen’s Instagram account. Most of them were scenes from outside, coffee shops, or his desk, but there was one that stood out to Bucky in particular.

It was a pair or hands, one on top of the other, the thumb curling around the fingers of the other. It was their hands, in detail, with the caption of two words.

_miss you._

It was simple, yet powerful enough, for Bucky to sit forward in his chair and drag his hands over his eyes, trying to keep the heart swelling moment from breaking him in public.

*

Three weeks made a difference in the weather. Instead of a balmy fall, it shifted to a chillier atmosphere. Bucky was so used to the humid air that made him sweat profusely underneath his tactical gear, that for the first time he welcomed the crisp air. Bucky dropped his bags by his door and turned around to face his neighbor's.

He knocked on the door in front of him and waited until he heard the familiar creek on the hinge that Bucky thought he hated.

Stephen opened the door, not quite recognizing Bucky, still talking on the phone. “I gotta call you, uh, right back Maria.” Stephen just leaned on his door. “Welcome back,” the artist said with shock still in his voice.

“I didn’t miss the gallery, did I?” Bucky asked earnestly.

“No, it’s tomorrow night. Not sure how you managed that," Stephen's voice turned from shock to slight anger. The bitterness undercut his words.

"Me either."

"Are you going to be around for it? Or are you going to disappear again?” 

“Look I know you’re mad - I had to go to Europe to take care of some extra work.”

“What did you do? Traverse the seven seas?”

“Something like that, actually,” Bucky tried to make the conversation light. “Can we discuss inside? It’ll just be better to talk without the neighbors hearing.”

“Be my guest.”

*

“Coffee? Tea? Off brand Coca-Cola?” Stephen offered at his kitchen counter.

“We’re moving on from ginger ale?”

“The store didn’t have any left.”

Bucky sat down at the kitchen island, and folded his hands in front while he slumped over. “Coffee will be fine,” Bucky tapped his fingers on the counter as Steve put together the drink. “I was, uh, in Europe.”

“Europe? Just, generally Europe?”

“Many different places. They’re blurring together.”

Stephen turned around as the coffee started to brew. “What’d you do there?”

Bucky didn’t want to lie. He wanted to tell Stephen that he had to take a mission to kill, so he could get paid...but it was just one of those things he had to tuck away. “I was meeting up with some managerial stuff. Mostly in big cities for planning and zoning for some skyscrapers,” Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “Y’know, they’re always trying to copy New York. I forgot to buy cell data, and many of the places I stayed at didn’t have phones…It was a weird trip.”

“Sounds like it,” Stephen said quietly. He turned around back to the coffee machine, poured to cups and handed one to Bucky. “So.”

“So,” Bucky echoed. “Are we still on good terms?”

“Are you going to disappear without notice again for almost a month?”

“I can’t promise that.”

“At least promise me to let me know.”

Bucky sipped on the drink, and stirred on the request. “I will.”

“Thank you.”

“You mentioned something about a gallery showing? Do you know who will be there?” Bucky tried to change the conversation into something light.

“I don’t know, some artist,” Stephen smiled. “Seven o’Clock is when it opens. Can we walk down there together?”

Bucky smiled. “I’d like that.” 

Stephen smiled back, and Bucky could feel as though he would have to rebuild from here.

*


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 70

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

The next evening approached quickly -  _too_ quickly for Bucky’s comfort level. Bucky sat on his bed looking at nothing in particular, and had a twist of nervousness that stood in his stomach.

Closed spaces.

People everywhere.

Echoed laughter that bounced off the wall and right into his ears that could cause hi _m to tighten his fists and punch the nex-_

Bucky shook out the intrusive thought. He would be fine. He hadn’t been _there_  in a long time. He hadn’t been anywhere near the people that cut his arm off and those people are far gone. He got up from the bed and looked at himself in the mirror. Bucky pushed his hair back and slipped on the arm cover once again.

 _I’m getting really fucking tired of putting this thing on,_  Bucky thought. He kept looking into the mirror until his memory inched back.

_“You look fine, Buck,” Steve sighed and rolled his eyes, “I swear whoever you meet at the movies will think you’re a real Gerard Butler.”_

_“Of all the actors,” Bucky laughed._

_“Just stop tugging on the bottom of your jacket - you’re gonna rip it before you even get out of my house.”_

Bucky let go of his jacket the he didn’t remember putting on, and took a deep breath. He walked out of his place and stood in front of Stephen’s door. It only took one knock to have the door open and be greeted by something that made him speechless.

“Wow,” was all Bucky could say, and placed his hands into his pockets.

“I could say the same about you,” Stephen smiled. His hair was styled and beard was trimmed and just looked....

Bucky just stood there, and had to shake himself out of his own thoughts. “Let’s - ah. Should we get on down to the show...?”

“Yes, let’s,” Stephen looked at his watch, “Shit we should really get going.”

*

Maria was talking to the gallery host, flipping through the list of signed up attendees, honestly looking a little shocked. Stephen places a hand on the door, and took a deep breath.

“I can’t do this.”

“What, this thing?” Bucky pointed to the empty show room. “You put your heart and soul into these pieces and you think you’re getting out of this?”

“Well,” Stephen said quietly.

“Nope, you’re going through that door,” Bucky stood his ground, “How long have you wanted this?”

“Since the first year of college.”

“So get your freshman ass in there and let people fawn over your talents.”

Stephen took a deep breath and opened the door.

*

They walked down the hallway of the gallery looking at the hung pieces. Bucky was transfixed with the artistry of the lights, and structure. “When did you do this?”

“Uh, maybe a week ago?” Stephen was met with silence. “Took me four tries to get the sequencing right... I was a little alone.”

Bucky tried to respond but people started to file in after the two of them, grabbing glasses of wine, and pointing around. Maria tapped on Stephen’s shoulder. 

“My, God. This work is great!” 

“Do you forget what I do?” Stephen laughed, and Bucky pushed him gently. “I mean, thank you. Thank you. Do you remember my neighbor?”

“I think we passed by once,” Maria gave her hand to give a handshake. “Stephen’s assistant, caretaker, overall nuisance, and I was his barista, but I think that position has been taken.”

Bucky accepted the handshake. “Nice to meet you,” he smiled. “James. Next door neighbor and I guess your new barista?” Bucky directed the question to Stephen. 

“One cappuccino recommendation and now we’re fighting over who’s my go to coffee person,” Stephen gave a small chuckle.

Maria changed her attitude when somebody walked through the door. She flipped through the multiple pages, and scribbled something down. “...and if you see at your 12, Desmond Cleary has arrived.”

“Seriously?”

“Look for yourself.”

“Whose Desmond?” Bucky questioned. 

“My college buddy - I can’t believe he found out about this - it’s been almost a decade since we’ve seen each other,” Stephen paused, “ Just give me one second...” 

“Be my guest,” Bucky smiled as he watched the other man walked over, arms extended, and giving a large hug to his friend.

“Champagne?” the waitress asked.

“Dear God, yes,” Maria took a glass from the tray.

“Sir?”

“I’ll pass, thank you,” Bucky declined politely. 

“No drink to loosen you up?” Maria asked, and Bucky pursed his lip together.. 

“No, I’m not the...biggest fan. I think I’m okay in the ‘loosening up department’.” Bucky watched the interaction between Desmond and Stephen.

“Okay, okay. We all celebrate in different ways. More power to you - just do me one thing, please take your shoulders down from your ears.”

︾

Steve hugged Sam tightly. “Holy shit, it has been too long.”

“I can’t believe you are hiding here all this time,” Sam looked around. “How’s the vacation?”

“God I wish it was a vacation - been working to just try and -” Steve felt a hand slide onto the small of his back. “Hey there,” Steve smiled and melted into Bucky’s hand. He could see Sam’s pointed expression. 

“Desmond - this is Bucky,” Steve gestured between the two, “Bucky, this is one of my best friends from college, Desmond Cleary. I’ve probably drank through ten liquor stores and five fake I.D.s throughout each semester with this man.”

“I still have a hangover,” Sam laughed,“I swear I have curbed my drinking habits. Nice to meet you. A good friend of Stephen’s is a good friend of mine.”

“Nice to meet you as well,” Bucky smiled tightly.

“...and hopefully a good friend of mine,” Tony chimed in. Steve internally rolled his eyes.

“You might be...?” Steve stood on the defensive. 

“I might be your biggest investor,” Tony said as he sipped his glass of whiskey. 

“Wait, I know you,” Bucky paused and a silence fell over the small group. “You used to work at the VA,” Bucky furrowed his eyebrows. Tony choked on his drink. 

“I don’t know-”

“You were in the biotech department. Tony...Tony Stark.” 

“Yes, uh-” Tony rolled on his toes. “That’s me.”

“Nice to meet you Tony. Stephen Turner,” Steve introduced himself, slightly angry over that  _little fact_  was glossed over in some of the briefings.

“Ah the elusive artist. The pleasure is all mine.”

“So, Tony,” Sam started, “What did you do in the biotech unit?” Sam questioned. 

“Prosthetics,” Tony muttered. “Remind me how you know me?” Tony pointed at Bucky.

“Spent a lot of time in the physical rehab building after I came back home from Afghanistan. You were there a lot,” Bucky recapped, like it was common knowledge. 

“Afghanistan?” Steve questioned, trying to put as much confusion into his words like he never knew before.

“What brings you here, Mr. Stark? If you don’t mind me asking. Not a lot of biotech you can work with here.” Sam asked. 

“I invest in art now, hand crafted art. Especially that of which that comments on the never ending spiral of media’s whirlwind,” Tony directed his attention to Steve, “How much are you selling that one for?” Tony pointed at one of the pieces. 

“Honestly,” Steve sighed, “I haven’t thought of something concrete.” 

“Would anyone like an egg roll appetizer?” the waiter broke the tension.

“I’ll take the whole plate,” Same interjected.

*

Steve saw Natasha and Clint by the back room. Bucky had dipped by the other side of the gallery, try to get away from the crowded scene. 

“Well, well, well. Isn’t it Stephen Turner,” Natasha smiled as she leaned back on her feet. “It’s been a long, long time.”

“Too long,” Steve leaned in for a hug, but Clint stopped him from approaching. 

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to keep your distance,” Clint said smugly. 

“You’re eating this up aren’t you?” Clint just gave a smirk. Steve sighed, and continued. “Where are my manners,” Steve gave Natasha a handshake, “It’s nice to see you again, Ms. Fuller. Now which piece caught your eye this evening?”

︾

Bucky looked at the other paintings in the room next door. The place was packed, as laughter and idle chit chat filled the room. To him, it all seemed just so...put together; there were so many pieces of the puzzle that fit so well. Stephen was talking to a red haired investor and the bodyguard that was standing right next to her. He was schmoozing her, trying to get as much money out of her pocket into his over a painting - light touches, laughter that went on too long. More noises started to fill up the room like the talking _from other patrons_

_clanging utensils in the small kitchen space -_

Bucky started to squeeze his glass in panic, eventually causing it to shatter in his covered hand. “Ah, shit,” he said, as he just stared at the puddle of water and broken shards of glass around and on his feet. 

“Sir, are you okay?” The waitress asked.

“Uh, yeah, just surprised from the sound I caused. Everything else is fine, thank you,” Bucky looked up and saw Stephen walking over to him. 

“Are you okay?" Stephen asked, "Or hurt? Do you need-"

“No, no. I’m okay,” Bucky took a deep breath, “Actually, I think I’m going to go back home.”

“Too many people?” Bucky was slightly shocked at the question. “Afghanistan is a pretty big indicator of sorts.”

“Oh,” was all that Bucky could say.

“No worries,” Stephen smiled. To Bucky it looked like he was going to say more, that he was-

“James? Is that you?” a voice said from the distance. Bucky looked over.

“Arnim?”

“James! It is so good to see you; you must be the one and only Stephen Turner?” Doctor Zola hobbled over to the two men.

“Yes, I am,” Stephen smiled.

“I saw an advert in the local paper that your work would be here. Your work is  _astounding,_ if I may say so myself. I didn’t know you knew James.”

“First of all, thank you for your compliments, and well, technically he’s my next door neighbor.”

“Doctor Zola is one of my family’s long time friends. We go way back,” Bucky explained, almost interrupting him.

“Any friend of Bucky’s is a friend of mine. Nice to meet you,” Stephen responded with a tight smile.

Arnim smiled. “James, keep this...friend of yours close. I like him,” Arnim said soft enough for Bucky to hear, but also enough for Stephen to catch on.

Bucky dropped his head and chuckled. He looked up at Stephen and noticed that he started to blush, ever so slightly. In that moment something caught Bucky’s eye. It could have been the strange lighting with different shadows but that shape of Stephen’s face reminded him of someone. 

Of a friend .

“Buck?” Stephen’s voice took him out of his thoughts. He felt the artist’s large hand rub Bucky’s shoulders in a moment of ease. 

“I want to take another look at your work, and maybe I will get a few prints for my office. I am  _absolutely_  enamored by what you do.”

“Absolutely! Feel free,” Steve smiled. “I think the gallery is open until 10pm, and I’m sure Angie will help you with anything else. Thank you for stopping by.”

“Thank you for creating such thought provoking work. I really hope you do make more of this series, it’s wonderful. James, don’t get too distracted when you’re with him,” Arnim winked and Bucky became flush with slight embarrassment, but something was off. The words almost slithered down Bucky’s spine. “With that,” Arnim paused, “I won’t leave you talking to an old doctor like me,” Arnim winked, “Enjoy the rest of your night, and Bucky, tell your parents I said hello.”

Bucky hated that it was a lie, but - Arnim was at least understanding and went along with the rouse. 

 _His patient’s_ upmost  _confidentiality._

 _“_ Will do,” Bucky gave a side smile and a small wave, and let the doctor disappear behind the wall before turning back to Stephen. “I’m going to go home, I think the crowd is getting to me,” Bucky scratched the back of his neck.  “I’m really very happy for you and I’m happy I could actually attend and see your -”

Bucky was cut off by Stephen’s warm lips enveloping his own, deeply. Warmth spread down Bucky’s spine and could feel Stephen’s hand of his hips.

Bucky felt calmer instantly. 

“Thank you for coming here with me,” Stephen smiled, “It means a lot.” Bucky just smiled in return, not really sure what to say. “I might get drinks with Desmond later, but...if possibly you were up later...”

Bucky smiled. It felt domestic. 

It felt nice.

“Yeah,” Bucky smiled, “Just knock.”

*


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 70 - Continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

The opening wound down. People left with prints bought and Angie happy. She locked the door, looking at the paintings hung with small tags hung. "Stephen, you do good work," she said as she turned around, "We will be in contact if anything else moves," Angie gave Steve a handshake, before moving to Tony and Natasha. Angie waved before she headed to her car. The six agents stood outside the darkened gallery. 

“Everyone is gone, right?” Sam asked Maria.

Maria sighed. “Go ahead,” she rolled her eyes. 

Sam, Natasha, and Clint gave Steve a group hug, and Tony gave Steve a handshake. “We missed you,” Clint muttered. Letting go, they all stood in a circle. 

“Do you think he noticed anything out of the ordinary?” Sam asked.

“We can only hope he didn’t,” Steve muttered. 

“How about next time you go on a mission like this, just send an email so we don’t think you ran off to Tahiti.”

“Tahiti?”

“It’s a magical place, Rogers,” Tony joked. “Should probably go with your assassin boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Steve replied.

“Don't be blind, Rogers. We all saw his hand slide to the small of your back, against your shoulders-”

"Don't be - how about the fact that  _he_ knew you? Treating him for his prosthetic arm - ring a bell?,” Steve stated with a little bite.

“Okay, okay. We still have a meeting on that one - so if you two boys can stop your bickering, we can move on. For now,” Maria huffed. 

“Fine," Steve and Tony said in unison. 

“Everyone, we still have a drive back, and work tomorrow at 8am. I expect everyone to be in my office for debriefing.”

“I’ll catch a Lyft back, I think I’m going to catch a drink with Steve?” Sam gave more of a question than a statement.

“Yes, please,” Steve said quietly.

*

Steve and Sam shucked their jackets onto the table as they sat down, and ordered the beers they wanted to indulge in.

“So, you’re sure that you’re not in a relationship with him?” Sam raised his eyebrows as he sipped his drink. Steve just gave him a look.

“I’m sure,” Steve paused. “But, uh, for Stephen Turner...I think he’s definitely blurring the edges, and a lot more than I thought Turner would.”

“How much is a lot?” Sam asked.

“Well...”

“Have you guys....did you _fuck an assassin?_!” Sam’s voice was a harsh whisper.

“No!” Steve almost spat out his drink, a little surprised in Sam's directness. “No, but if I don’t bring back the Ghost soon enough, it might escalate into that,” he sighed.

“If it was anything like that kiss you two shared a few hours ago, that would make perfect sense.”

“You saw that?”

“You weren’t discrete about it. I’m honestly shocked that wasn’t what Tony was referring to.”

“Fuck,” Steve ran his hands over his face. “Bucky is," Steve tried to collect his words. "He’s just...so much of who he was before, and I was so attracted to  _that_  when we were younger.”

“But?”

“ _But_ , it’s also that he grew into this person who just wants a shoulder to lean his head on. He was the shoulder _I_ would lean on, and maybe was that shoulder was a comfort for others as well."

“Letting himself be the one that would vent your problems _to_ , rather the other way around?.”

“Yeah. It just feels like it’s my turn to step up. My turn to hold him, to help make things better...and he’s allowing me -" Steve stopped his words mid sentence. "He's allowing Stephen to do so,” Steve took a swig of his beer. “I hate that I have to turn him in after all of this.”

“When do you think that will be?”

“Soon, actually. We’re almost there. I’d say within the next month, if things keep up.”

“Like what things?”

“Sam,” Steve laughed silently. 

Sam laughed and leaned back in his chair. He took another sip of his beer and looked around the bar, before talking again. “Another month in this place?”

“It’s not that bad,” Steve laughed some more, and Sam wasn't convinced. “It's not that bad!"

"I don't believe you."

"There’s some great places, and they’re not that hard to find,” He was happy that Sam understood when to interject levels of levity. “Their running trails? Fantastic.”

*

Steve was dropped off by the Lyft driver. He said his goodbyes to Sam at the bar, giving him hope that he would be home soon; everything back to normal. Steve gave a few light taps to Bucky’s door. He wanted a few minutes before the other man opened the door. “Hey there,” Steve smiled, as his neighbor opened the door.

“You’re sure you know this my place, right?” Bucky asked. 

“I’m very sure.”

“How many drinks?”

“One,” Steve paused, “A couple of glasses of champagne - but I’m pretty sure those are out of my system.” Bucky didn’t look convinced. “I can show you my bank account, if you want a more convincing argument?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Just come in,” and grabbed Steve by the waist, closed the door and pushed him against the wall.

“With my coat on?” Steve asked smugly. Bucky leaned in more and kissed Steve. He brought his hands up to Steve’s shoulder and shucked his coat off. Steve hummed and brought his hands to Bucky’s firm ass. 

Steve broke the kiss, and stared at Bucky. Here he was, holding Bucky, the height of a (fake) artistic career, with his _(fake)_ boyfriend, in his  ** _fake_**  identity. Steve cursed internally, knowing that he couldn’t do it.

“Hey, Picasso,” Bucky laughed, “You here with me?” 

“Uh,” Steve was brought back to the present. “Yeah - sorry I think I just got tired all of a sudden.”

Bucky’s arm’s dropped to his side slowly. “Okay,” It sounded as though he was forcing his mood to be as chipper as possible. “Do you want to...”

“Can we sleep together?" Steve looked into Bucky's grey eyes. "Just sleeping.”

Bucky smiled softly. “Absolutely.”

*


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 71

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

Bucky woke up to the sun peaking through the curtains, with large hands draped over his chest and warm, and rhythmic breaths on his neck. He turned to face the artist, trying not to move too much. Bucky took his hand and ran his fingers across Stephen’s chest. He felt the small bumps on his rough skin. 

It felt familiar. 

*

_Bucky held the paper tape measurer in his hand._

_“Why are you trying to get measurements again?” Steve questioned. “Personal reasons?”  
_

_“Yep, I’m gonna use it to measure your size 28-inch waist.”  
_

_“Bucky,” Steve sighed in laughable disappointment, “Jesus Christ, what are you talking about?”  
_

_“I’m taking measurements of your room, for my pre-architecture class.”_

_“Well,” Steve got out of his doorway, “be my guest.”  
_

_“Okay, thanks,” Bucky walked into Steve’s house, and following his friend up the stairs. He got a look at his smaller friend’s face. “Are you good? You look paler than usual today.”  
_

_“Yeah, yeah. Normal stuff.”  
_

_“Don’t faint on me - I don’t wanna see your ma at the hospital. Again.”  
_

_“It was one time!”  
_

_“You had a black eye, a bloody nose, and cuts from where they threw you out the Goddamn window. Your ma walked right into the room.”  
_

_“She almost had a heart attack that day,” Steve laughed. “I still have those scars. They’re small...but they’re still there.” Steve pulled his collar down. Little white cuts still rested at the base of his shoulders._

_“Battle scars,” Bucky used air quotes, before watching Steve roll his eyes. Bucky got down on the floor and started to measure the room._

_*_

“Hey, you,” Stephen smiled as he woke up. 

“Hey, you, back,” Bucky smiled. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Good. Thanks for last a great evening.”

“You’re welcome,” Stephen smiled. 

“Are we doing that weirdly formal thing again?”

“I think so,” Stephen smiled. “Well, my liege, since we have no where to go, I’m gonna make us some coffee.”

“You’re warm, don’t go,” Bucky whined softly.

“But..caffeine.”

“Ugh,” Bucky rolled onto his back, “Fine. Go treat your caffeine addiction.”

*

He pulled on a pair of sweatpants before he padded into the living area. Stephen was already pouring a cup of black coffee as Bucky walked in. 

“Ah, sleeping beauty wakes,” Stephen smiled.

“Hey,” Bucky sat down at his kitchen stool, “I was up before you,” a light smile crossed his face.

Stephen held up the coffee pot in a silent silent question to see if Bucky wanted a cup, which he denied. Bucky stared at Stephen’s body, as it shifted and contoured as he moved through the kitchen, cleaning up and organizing the sink.  Stephen’s face was turned slightly towards Bucky, as he gave a smirk. “Slept like a brick.”

“Certainly felt like one,” Bucky muttered as he continued to watch. 

Stephen turned around and leaned on the kitchen island. “Like what you see?” he joked.

“Well, yes,” Bucky chuckled as he pushed his hair back. “You just...remind me of a friend from a long time ago. He, uh, had the same cuts on his collarbone. Where’d you get them?”

“You thought of another person while we were together?”

“No!” Bucky realized his mistake. “No, he died a while back.”

“You thought of your dead friend while we were together?”

“Now that you put it that way, I sound like such a necrophile,” Bucky’ leaned back in his chair with his hands over his eyes as the embarrassment started to rise. 

Stephen laughed as he sipped his coffee. “No, not at all,” sarcasm dripped at the words. Bucky crumpled up a napkin and threw it at Stephen. “Are you trying to kill me with that napkin for your sexual fantasies?” Stephen continued to poke fun at Bucky.

“Oh, shut up,” Bucky returned in jest. 

“Okay, okay. I don’t see much food here that can feed one person, nonetheless two," Stephen signed. "Diner for breakfast?”

“Diner for breakfast,” Bucky agreed. 

“Great,” Stephen smiled, put his coffee cup in the empty sink, walked around the kitchen island, and gave Bucky a quick peck on the cheek. “I have to change into something more manageable than what I wore last night - so let me gather my stuff really quickly and I’ll be back in five?”

“Don’t take too long, my stomach is growling.”

*

The waitress sat them down at the empty booth by the back. The two men ordered their meals and were left alone.

“Can I ask you a question?” Bucky unraveled his napkin to place his utensils by the side.

“Sure, but only if I can ask you one after,” Stephen replied. 

“Fair. Where did you get those small cuts on your collar bone?”

“I’m not getting out of that one aren’t I?”

“No,” Bucky smiled. 

Stephen drew his mouth into a tight line. “A long time a go when I still lived with my parents, when we lived in the suburbs. The uh," Stephen took a deep breath. "The house caught fire. My parents both died but I managed to escape through the back window. It was already broken, but not being burned alive, sustaining some breathing issues and minor scratches what a whole lot better.”

“Oh," Bucky put his hand on Stephen's, and lightly skimmed his thumb over the other man's. "I’m sorry. You didn’t have to say if you didn’t want to - you could have told me to fuck off, or to -” Bucky felt as though he crossed the line.

“I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t want you to know. Level four, trauma unlocked,” Stephen smiled, stopping Bucky short and letting the tension melt away. “My turn,” Stephen re-adjusted himself in his seat. “How do you know Tony Stark?”

Bucky took a deep breath. “Well, after I came back from Afghanistan -” Bucky was cut off from the buzzing of his phone. He took a peak at the number that sent him the text. “Shit - I have to send an email. Someone fucked up the deal for one of the projects.” 

“That’s a lot to receive in one text.”

“They told me if I got a message from them, to crank up the lawyers,” Bucky shrugged hoping his lie got through. “Ten minutes, I swear. I’ll be back before the food comes.”

“No worries,” Stephen smiled, “I’ll be here.”

*

Bucky stepped outside and walked to the back of the restaurant, leaning up against the wall like the dishwasher smoking a ciggarette on the other end. 

_you’re needed_

**so soon?**

_you don’t want the job?_

**sorry. yes.**

**when/where?**

 

_good._

_you'll find your destination tomorrow with the other information in the usual spot._

**understood.**

Bucky sighed. He really didn’t want to go, he wanted to stay. He wanted to quit. But, a job is a job, and a kill is just a kill, and his rent wasn’t gonna pay itself. Bucky trotted back to the table as the food was being placed in front of Stephen. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yes and no. Deal has to be renegotiated, but they seem open at least. Worse, I have to leave tonight to get there tomorrow.”

“A job is a job,” Stephen placed a fork full of eggs in his mouth, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” 

Bucky chuckled. “At least I told you this time,” he tried to sound hopeful. 

“True. How about we actually keep in touch this time?” Stephen said. Bucky could see the smug look on his face.

“You know what,” Bucky crumpled up his napkin and threw it at Stephen, “I’d prefer that, punk.”

Stephen made a mocked face of surprise. “You’re trying to kill me with that napkin again, _you jerk!_ ” he said quietly chuckling at the same time, 

Bucky chuckled as he ate some of his pancakes, soaking up as much time as he could with Stephen. 

*


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 72

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel, and just in case the names, characters, businesses, places products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The flight to England was long, but manageable. Easy on, easy off. Bucky connected to the airport WiFi as soon as he landed to send a message to Stephen.

**landed in jolly ol’ england**

_godspeed. show them who’s boss. :-)_

**i can only try my best.**

It was true and well, also not. He  _could_ only try but, he had really no other choice. Bucky had to complete this mission. 

Bucky took a detour through the airport and got a data pack. He rebooted his phone, so the small EE would should up in the right hand corner. As per the instructions, Bucky texted his contact and swiped his apps to the timer function, and tapped Start.  He had six hours to complete the hit.

*

Bucky’s target was one Samantha Crothers. 

She was an accountant for the company  _Perils -_ a life insurance company specializing in short-term life-insurance requests. Most people who signed up were families who had at least one person with a terminally threatening sickness, and needed to be set up to have a pillow...post life. The reason Samantha Crothers was chosen was because of the restructuring of funds that wasn’t quite ending up back into customer hands.

Money was being mysteriously moved from one account to a certain CEO, as well as hers, to hopefully be seen as something more than just a mid-level accountant.

A private public journal was uncovered, with changed names that all led back to this one IP address, that was all pointed back to a certain computer, in a certain wing, in a certain building. In exhaustive detail, Samantha described that she was putting funds back into the CEO’s personal bank account, in which she thought that when the CEO found out, he  would come running right to her in a celebratory manor that would hoist her up to be the best accountant that there ever was.  

However, with all dangerous daydreams, it eventually ended up with murder. There were a few posts to the journal that raised some eyebrows and red flags. Some things were more violent, and it frightened enough people to be called in. He managed to re-read a few printed out posts on the plane. There were a few lines in the journal that looked off. He wasn’t sure if the sizing was off, or if it was the style. They just looked added on.

Bucky shrugged it off on the plane, attributing what he thought was something altered just to the printer they used.  

Bucky sighed, when he opened the car door. He was going to be dealing up close with a potentially murderous accountant that stole from the sick. Bucky tapped the phone number, and set up a meeting  the phone to discuss becoming a client, to try and help out his dying brother’s family.

*

As he walked through the front gates after clearing with security, Bucky took the elevator up the the company’s front reception area. The elevator pinged each floor, and the metronomic sound echoed in his head. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, thanking fate that he was the only one in the closed metal box. To try and subdue...whatever was going on in his brain, Bucky went through the steps he had to take to complete the task at hand. 

Kill by injection. 

Needle to open skin. 

Press button to activate.

Easy enough.

*

“So, Mister...” Richard, the sales representative opened up the file on his desk. Bucky was looking over his shoulder at Samantha’s empty desk. 

“Jones,” he replied in a slightly convincing British accent. If anyone asked he would just mention that he lived in America as a child before moving back, as to why it would be all over the place. 

“Mister Jones, first off, I want to apologize about the health of your brother.”

“Thank you. Brian’s death will be hard to deal with when it comes,” Bucky pushed his lips solemnly together, “But, hopefully this will help make everything a little bit smoother.”

“Yes, yes. Absolutely,” Richard continued on during his scripted pitch. The whole meeting just felt like it was never ending. Bucky stood up and shook the salesman’s hand. 

“Thank you for your time. Is there anyone I could talk to regarding structure of payment?”

“Sure, sure. Let me see if anybody is available.”

Bucky peeked at his watch. 

**Time Remaining: 3 Hours 2 Minutes 23 Seconds**

Richard got back to his desk and turned his computer back on. “Samantha is our best accountant - she’s out to lunch meeting and wont be back for an hour or so. I did give her a call and she said that she would love to talk to you before the end of the day. Any chance you can come back in, let’s say an hour and a half?”

“Yes, absolutely. Thank you,” Bucky gave Richard a handshake and set up the appointment with the receptionist at the front. He went back down to the lobby and grabbed a seat at the attached restaurant to eat. 

*

**Time Remaining 1 Hour 30 minutes 33 Seconds.**

Samantha opened the door to the conference room. “Mr. Jones, thank you for your patience today, and I’m so terribly sorry for making you wait,” she stepped into the room. “Lunch plus, then I had a conference call...what a  _day!_ You know how corporate can be.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Bucky forced a chuckle. “Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to meet with me.”

“Shall we get to the numbers?”

“We shall,” Bucky said opening up the packet in front of him. 

*

**Time Remaining: 0 Hours 25 Minutes 59 Seconds**

_58_                                                                               

_57_

_56 ~~~~_

Bucky was riding dangerously close on time, closer than usual. 

“Mr. Jones, let me lead you out. Thank you for signing everything with  _Perils_  and I hope you feel a little bit more safer with out company helping your family every which way.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Bucky smiled. He let Samantha lead out of the door and into the company floor. Bucky fiddled with the syringe. He just needed a hug, a handshake, anything to get close to her. She brought him down to the main floor via the packed elevator -

“Excuse me, sorry, just have to get to this level,” Bucky said to a strange woman who wouldn’t budge when the doors opened to the ground floor.

-and past security. All he needed to do was  _stick_  -

“Have a great day, We will talk,” Samantha continued to talk.

-  _the needle_  - 

“Once your brother has unfortunately passed.” 

-  _into anywhere on her body_  - 

She stuck her hand out for a shake and Bucky accepted. He was about to flick his wrist to get the needle into Samantha's wrist when he heard a ringtone emanate from his suit pocket. Bucky just quickly shook her hand and reached to grab his phone, quietly thanking her for her time. 

Bucky stepped outside the building, accepting the call.

“Hello?”

“ _Hey, how did everything go with the meeting?”_ It was Stephen’s voice. 

“Uh,” Bucky watched Samantha walk past the security entrance and back in to an open elevator, “not good.”

“ _You didn’t get the project?”_

 _“_ No,” Bucky voice trailed off.

“ _Shit, I’m sorry. What comes next?”_

 _“_ Honestly? I...I don’t know.”

.

.

.

**Time Remaining: 0 Hours 0 Minutes 0 Seconds**

*


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 73

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel

**where is the conformation?**

_no conformation_

**what do you mean?**

_target was lost_

**target was lost?**

_yes **.**_

*

Bucky waited for a response - a reply, three dots,  _something -_ but nothing came. He waited as long as he could until he had to power down his phone for the flight. 

*

The plane landed without any issues, the wheels landing on the tarmac, once again jolting Bucky awake. He powered up his phone, only to receive one message from Stephen. 

_let me know when you’re back on american soil. :-)_

**touched down. will be back soon.**

Bucky walked to baggage claim in silence, letting the many voices become white noise. He waited, he heard the buzzer, he grabbed his bags, and headed to the exit. 

The last thing he remembers is seeing -  _is that him? No, that's just -_  someone with his last name hastily scribbled on a piece of cardboard. He felt a pinch on his neck, and saw a black van quickly pulling up to the curb of the airport entrance. It’s doors opened up, and was led inside, before his vision slowly faded to black.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 73 
> 
> Repercussions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.
> 
> Please see end of chapter notes, if you would like a summary as to what happens.

Arnim Zola had too much on his mind for only being mid-afternoon. He turned the volume to his classical music a few clicks up, two make sure that his mind was calm. It was one of those weeks where he just sat in his chair in between patients and subjects that he would just want retirement to come faster and faster. 

The idea of waking up peacefully everyday in the comfort of the Austrian countryside was just blissful and somehow un-obtainable. He would sleep in, read, take long walks with a dog (preferably something that wasn’t as big as him), and be able to make food from scratch. 

Alas, Arnim was still in his office dictating notes from his latest patient, most likely staying late this evening to finish up. A light tap on the door took him out of his thoughts. 

“Doctor Zola?”

Arnim looked up and saw his new medical assistant. “Yes, Jessica?” he asked as he turned down the music.

“I have a call from a...Brock Rumlow?”

“Oh, perfect. Please transfer him to the secure line.”

“Will do,” Jessica smiled and walked back to her desk in the main waiting room.

Arnim waited a minute before picking up the line. “Brock, nice to hear from you.” 

“ _Yeah, yeah, Zola_ ,” Brock sighed. “ _We got word from the source that your little pet didn’t complete his most recent job. It was confirmed earlier today by the fuck face himself._ ”

“I’m sorry, I must be going deaf. Did you say he  _did_ or _did not_?”

“ _Uh, did not. Mission 241 is reported fail._ ”

 _Oh, James_.

“ _Auch du Liber._ Okay,” Arnim sighed, “well, bring him in. Back door. I will get the set up ready,” he said with a rushed tone. He put the receiver down and pressed the intercom button. “Jessica? Do I have any other appointments listed for today?”

“ _No, sir.”_

“Perfect. Please block it out.”

 _“Absolutely, doctor. I’m going to head out then, as well. Have a good day_.”

“You as well, Jessica. Thank you,” Arnim tugged on his suit jacket, and leaned back on his chair as emails came through the protected server. Expletives in the subject lines, he could see he had a lot of debt to pay, and a lot of things to straighten out.

Arnim’s phone buzzed.

 _in back_.

*

Two guards stood outside the locked bomb shelter doors by the alleyway. The doctor walked up to the men hidden in tactical gear and waited for the door to open.

“Well, I’m about to work with my patient. I can’t touch rust like that.”

The guards opened the doors immediately, and Arnim walked down the stairs to meet his patient.

*

The Ghost was sitting in a metal chair with his arms strapped down by heavy metal cuffs. His hair draped in front of his eyes, wet from sweat, with his clothes splattered with small wet patches as well.

“Get me  _out of here,”_ he gritted through his teeth, “and get me  _out of this chair._ ”

“Tsk, tsk,” Arnim said as he tased him with the device. The Ghost screamed with pain. “Those are not the words you say. Yes or no, or only as directed. You know this,” Arnim turned to Rumlow. “Were the words spoken to him?”

“Yes, of course,” Rumlow stated.

“Good, but it doesn’t explain the talk back,” Arnim adjusted his glasses. “Let’s try going back to the roots,” he cleared his throat. The Ghost made eye contact with Rumlow as a plea to save him. The henchman didn’t budge. “Well, at least some training wasn’t lost. Now, where were you?”

“Unknown,” The Ghost stated.

“Good. What’s your name?”

“Unknown.”

“Very good. What do you do for my business?”

“Track and kill.”

“And how do you do that?”

“By following orders.”

“Now, did you follow the orders during your last assignment?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I-I got distracted.”

Arnim sat back in his chair. “Now that’s an interesting development. How did you get distracted?”

“I got a call.”

“From who?”

“A...a friend.”

“You don’t have friends.”

“Yes,  _yes I do_.”

“No talkback,  _Ghost,”_ Arnim tased the man in front of him, letting his screams resonate. “Have you been taking your medication?” The Ghost didn’t answer, and was punished once again. “Answer the question.”

The Ghost breathed heavily. “No.”

“How long?”

“I can’t remember.”

“How...fitting,” Arnim just stated. He walked behind the Ghost to grab the metal tray. He rolled it beside his patient and started to snap on a pair of medical gloves. “I suspected with the hesitation, the talk back, the...whatever,” he took a needle and started to draw a serum from a small vile. “Now I will give you your regular dose, but if you don’t comply, my hand...could slip.”

The Ghost pursed his lips.

“Who is the one who distracted you?” There was no response. “Name.  _Now_.”

“Stephen Turner,” he gritted out a response.

“Ah, the elusive artist,” Arnim grabbed The Ghost’s chin and held his head still. He could feel his the muscles tense underneath his finger tips. “You two  _fucked_ didn’t you?” No response. “Yes or no?” The Ghost just closed his eyes. “I guess that ‘No personal relationships’ rule just didn’t stick, huh?”

Arnim let go of the Ghost’s chin. “Well, it looks like we not only have to punish you for not following orders, but also we’ll be doing some tracking,” he took a sterile wipe and cleaned off the Ghost’s flesh arm, but not before taking off the  cover on his metal arm. “This is mine. Your little security blanket,” Arnim flocked the needle to make sure no air bubbles - he was a doctor after all.

The serum was injected and he watched the Ghost’s hands un-grip the chair.

“Status report.”

No response.

“ _Status repor_ t,” Rumlow said more forcefully from the back of the room, as Arnim tased the Ghost. His screams and grunts in pain resonated throughout the room.

“Mission status, fail.”

“Correct.”

“How?”

“He called me. I hesitated and got distracted.”

“ _Again_!”

The Ghost repeated the answers until his throat was dry. Rumlow poured water down his throat.

“So,” Arnim walked around the Ghost, drawing a finger across his body, “what should we do for punishment? Physical?” He looked over at the Ghost. “No, we have to keep you intact. We have to go deeper,” Arnim tapped the Ghost’s chest above his heart, and then moved to his head. “But we can definitely try to break down those.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arnim starts to recondition Bucky after not following orders. He is tased multiple times and interrogated.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 75

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel. 
> 
> This chapter contains vomiting, and if you have emetophobia or triggers relating to vomiting, please read the end chapter notes to understand what happens.
> 
> To skip the one section please go to where Steve says words: "Better?"

Steve tapped his pen on the notebook. Four voicemails and multitudes of texts were all sent to Bucky’s phone without a lick of response. It had been two days. Two days of  _nothing._ Something was wrong, but he just didn’t know if it was Bucky avoiding him or he managed to take another month long "European vacation". Nick and the other team had found information on Bucky's three week trip. People laying there, _blood pooling -_

A knock on the door got him out of his thoughts. 

Steve almost jogged to the door, and opened it up. Bucky was standing with heavy bags under his eyes, hair drenched in sweat and his skin moist with oil. He was heavily breathing like he was doing hard exercise not five minutes ago. 

“Hey are you -” Steve was cut off by Bucky vomiting right on his shoes. “Okay. Let’s get you in.”

*

Steve, still partly covered in vomit, held Bucky by his side, closed his door and brought him to his bathroom. 

“ _No_ ,” Bucky said, almost a whisper, but sternly. Strong and forceful. 

“Buck, we gotta clean you up.”

“No, no shower.”

“Okay, but we have to clean you up. Sorry to say, but you look like shit.” Steve held him firmly, as Bucky continued to hobble. There was no response to Steve’s observation other than a blank stare. Bucky sat down and leaned, back flush against the wall.

“I’m gonna -” Bucky started to say, as a hand -  _metal -_ flew up to cover his mouth.

Steve immediately opened the toilet. He wanted to make a witty retort that this seemed familiar but it wasn’t the right time. Bucky wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve, when he was done.

“Better?” Steve asked.

“Kind of.”

“Okay. Let’s take off your clothes.” No response. “You have to give me an answer, buddy.”

“Okay.”

“Okay about what?”

Bucky sighed. “About the clothes.”

“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen what’s underneath.” No response. “I’ll keep my stupid comments to myself,” Steve peeled the jacket and long sleeved shirt off and placed it into his trash. He gave a sharp intake of breath.Steve had seen the arm, but nothing like it was up close. His shoulder was scarred all around the insert site of the prosthetic. It continued above his shoulder and to the back. Steve wanted to touch him. Wanted to massage every nook and cranny, letting him heel who Bucky turned out to be. His shoulder was a part of him - it was -

“Magnificent,” Steve stated.

“I’m disgusting.”

“Stop.”

“A  _monster_.”

“Bucky,” Steve stated a little bit more forcefully.

“Why? Why me? Why -” tears started to fall from Bucky’s eyes. 

“I don’t have those answers, but I sure as  _shit_ wish I did,” Steve too his hand and cupped Bucky’s face, as he wiped away the falling tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Let’s get washed up. Warm water, okay?”

“Okay.”

*

Steve bagged Bucky’s clothes as he watched him dress into some of Steve’s. He wasn’t letting him get of his sight. Bucky started to walk back to the living area as Steve was placing the bag into the trash. 

“Whoa, whoa, don’t walk without me.”

“I can walk by myself,” Bucky bit back.

“I’m well aware, but you just threw up twice within five minutes of being here, so excuse me for being a bit cautious.”

Bucky sighed and pinched his nose, in defeat. Steve placed an arm around his waist and brought Bucky to the couch. 

“So, I have a few questions,” Steve just stated matter of factly.

“Can’t this wait for tomorrow?” Bucky asked as he leaned back on the armrest, his metal arm in full view. 

“We could, but there’s a big metal arm that you never had before tonight, and you’re kind of too comfortable with it to only get it within the past few days.”

Bucky gritted his teeth and hooked his hands behind his neck. “Stark,” Bucky sighed as he closed his eyes. He brought his hands down to his side. “When I came back from Afghanistan, I was a severely worn out P.O.W lab rat. I couldn’t afford the basic treatment even with the V.A. because of my condition,” Bucky wasn’t even looking at Steve. “I needed a little bit more help than what they could provide. The doctor I was originally with before being transferred, told me to apply to this biotech program,” Bucky paused. “He made me this arm,” Bucky opened and closed his fist, “Moves like a real one, and I can even feel pressure.”

Steve was quiet. He got up from the couch and crouched in front of Bucky. He placed his hand on Bucky’s knee. “Thank you. Thank you for sharing this,” Steve smiled softly. 

“You must think I’m this...this...”

Steve didn’t even let Bucky finish his sentence. “Never.”

Bucky pursed his lips nodded and looked away. He closed his eyes tightly. Steve got up from the crouched position. 

“Do you know what happened after you got off the plane?” 

“No, I -” Bucky struggled. “I just remember walking out of the door and...nothing.”

“Where do you last remember being? Most recently.”

“I feel like I woke up...like came into consciousness at the diner. Like I just had a realization, just gulping down a glass of water.”

“Okay. Okay,” Steve sighed and ran his hand over his face. “I just have to text back Maria, okay? Just sit right here, I will just be at the kitchen counter. Five minutes.”

*

Steve scrolled on his phone on his contacts until he reached to the one he wanted. 

**Tomorrow night.**

Steve waited. He saw the dots.

_Are you sure?_

Steve sighed quietly.

**Yes.**

_We’ll be at headquarters. We will expect you by 02100. - N_

Steve clicked his phone off and placed it in his back pocket, and walked back to the couch. Bucky put his feet up. 

“How about we take a day drip into D.C. tomorrow?” Steve said as he came back into Bucky’s view.

Bucky sighed, and looked up to Steve. “Sure,” It looked like Bucky forced a smile. “I can use the distraction.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky ends up at Steve's door after two days of being reconditioned. Steve opens the door and Bucky vomits on his floor and shoes. Steve brings Bucky to the bathroom, and he throws up again. Steve bags Bucky's clothes before talking about his metal arm.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 76

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

Steve woke to Bucky’s hand draped over his own chest. Steve shifted back into Bucky, and heard his hum of pleasure.

“Stop moving,” Bucky muttered, “More sleep time,” it was barely audible.

Steve grabbed his phone, that was resting on his nightstand, to look at the time. “It’s almost eleven,” he said as he started to shift from under Bucky’s arm. 

“Why are you in such a rush? We have all day to get down to D.C.”

“I know,” Steve threw a shirt on with his sweats, and started to look through his closet for a nice pair of clothes, “but I thought we would grab some coffees downtown before heading out?”

“And the coffees will still be made if we stay an extra hour in the warmth of this stupidly extravagant duvet.”

Steve was searching for something to say. He was stuck.

“Stephen?” Bucky asked, concerned.

“I made dinner reservations. At the Dabney. I’ve had them made a few days ago, for when you came back from England.”

“The Dabney?”

“Maria loves the place. She brings her parents there a lot when they’re in town,” Steve faced Bucky. “I thought I’d make the trip a little special.”

A smile ran across Bucky’s face. “I, uh. Wow. I’ve never been treated like this before,” Bucky sat up in bed. 

“Anything for my best guy.”

“Keep those words up and you’ll be sendin’ my pa chasing after you with a shot gun,” Bucky was just met with silence. “Too dark?”

“Just a little,” Steve said with a small chuckle.

︾

They started on the road and was looking only a half hour ETA to get to D.C., letting the tree covered winding roads to lead them to their destination. The monuments lined the skyline, creating an air of authority. Bucky, for all the time he had lived in Falls Church,had only visited the capital a handful of times.

“You okay?” Stephen looked over from the driver’s seat.

“Just a little drained from yesterday’s events.”

Stephen slowed the car down, and pulled over to the side of the highway. “I can turn around? Change the reservation for another day?” Stephen let Bucky soak in the words. “Get a pizza tonight and watch more Riverdale?”

A laugh escaped Bucky’s mouth. He took a deep sigh. “I think I’m okay, though, pizza and Riverdale does sound enticing.” Stephen didn’t look convinced. “I’m okay.”

“Just give me the word, Buck and I’ll turn this car right round,” Stephen smiles and touched his arm lightly.

Bucky smiled. “Will do,” he said. There was something in the back of his mind though. Like something was going to -

“So, Smithsonian Air and Space Museum or Natural History?” Stephen asked, pulling Bucky back into the present.

“Natural history. I can go for some whale talk.”

“Whale talk it is.”

*

“C’mon, one photo,” Stephen pleaded.

“Right in front of the skulls of Neanderthals? Our very own ancestors?” Bucky asked.

“Please? We don’t really have any photos of each other.”

“Fine,” Bucky rolled his eyes, “but just one photo.”

“I promise,” Stephen smiles. He got closer to Bucky, holding his phone into position to take the photo. Bucky looked at Stephen. It was genuine. A life he could imagine.

A home.

Maybe some dogs, who knows.

Bucky’s chest filled joy. The two seconds he stood there looking at Stephen felt like a lifetime. It felt like happiness, almost like he forgot that particular emotion. A smile grew on his face. Stephen looked at him, and pressed his lips to Bucky’s and snapped another picture.

Bucky gave a mocked surprised expression. “You took more than one photo.”

“And it’s stuck in my phone forever,” Stephen winked and grabbed Bucky’s hand, started to walk towards the next exhibition.

*

“Lunch?” Stephen asked. “All of these fossils are having me crave a hot dog.”

“Yeah, I can go for one,” Bucky agreed with Stephen.

“Maria’s family swears by this one,” Stephen said as he pulled his car into a parking spot. “Any toppings?”

“Ketchup. That’s it,” Bucky smiled.

“Great, I’ll be right back.”

*

Bucky watched Stephen order the food, as he felt a buzzing in his pocket. He fished out his phone.

_Incoming Call: Doctor Z_

_Tick._

He instinctively pressed the green cal button.

“Hello?” Bucky answered.

_“James?”_

“Yes? Doctor Zola?”

_“Hi James! I very sorry to bother you, but we need you.”_

“In the office?”

 _“Not quite,”_ Doctor Zola sighed.  _“Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car.”_

A ringing in Bucky’s ears started to manifest, lightly at first. It grew, and grew, until his vision started to blur. His breathing quickened and put his head between his knees and his hands behind his neck. 

He started to hear the ticking, like a cold distant memory that wouldn't get out of his head. It grew louder and louder like someone was tapping on the window. 

He started -

_Tick._

︾

 _“Ghost,”_ his director said over the phone. Ghost coughed, and his vision started to become less distorted, and his breathing centered.

“Yes,” the Ghost responded.

_“Take In Stephen Turner to our designated facility.”_

“Understood.” The Ghost put the cell phone back in his pocket, and looked back out the window. He saw Stephen Turner bring two hot dogs to the car he was sitting in. The Ghost took out the syringe from his metal arm, tapped it a couple of times to remove any air bubbles.

_Sedate._

_Bring in Stephen Turner._

_Kill Stephen Turner._

_Return to normalcy under direction of Zola._

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's interrogation begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

Steve awoke with his hands and feet cuffed to a chair, having the bitter cold metal seat numbing his body. 

“Hello?” his voice was raspy and dry. There was no one. Steve Rogers was talking to an empty, dark...room? Warehouse? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure how far back the room went. 

“Hello?” Steve asked again. He fiddled with the restraints. Metal chains rattled against metal, letting the sound echo throughout the empty place. Around his wrists were almost like cuffs, and didn’t budge when pulling at them, and moving his legs only caused more sound to be made. “Shit.”

He didn’t feel his phone in his pocket, and only had a small recollection as to what happened before...

_How long has it been?_ Steve thought.  _No bullet holes, limbs still in tact...they...they want me alive._

_“Someone?! Anyone?!”_ Steve screamed again, his voice just bouncing back on the walls. 

“ _Save your voice, Mr. Turner,”_ said a voice over the loudspeaker. Steve tried again to get out of the restraints. “ _Don’t over exert yourself Stephen. Those are military grade.”_

_“_ Who are you?! How can you see me?”  _And why the hell have I heard that voice before?!_ Steve rapidly thought. 

_“If you look up you can see a wonderful device called a camera.”_

_“_ I know what a fucking camera is,” Steve gritted out in annoyance.

“ _Oh, tsk, tsk. Don’t get angry - I haven’t even told you why you’re here.”_

Steve searched his memory for a match. The gallery opening.  _The gallery._ “I know your voice. I know who the fuck you are.”

“ _Ah, the cogwheels are turning.”_

_“_ You’re,” Steve stopped to cough. His throat was raw from hours upon hours of not talking. Just sitting there. From screaming. “If I guess right can I at least get some water?”

“ _Fine.”_

_“_ Zola. You’re Bucky’s family friend.”

“ _And you’re that fucking artist who caused my best worker to not complete his job.”_

_“_ I would like some water,” Steve didn’t even want to argue. Zola was behind it all. He was the one that gave information to Bucky. It was -

Steve head a door open from behind, foot steps from heavy boots approached to where Steve was sitting. Bucky came into view, metal arm out, and the same tactical gear he had seen in grainy photos from case files. He held a metal bottle, grabbed Steve by the hair and pulled back his head. 

“Open,” Bucky said, cold and calculated. This...this wasn’t Bucky. This was the Ghost. This was the heavy duty party trick that was brought out for politicians and special cases. Water slowly flowed down his throat. 

“ _Enough,”_  Zola’s voice echoed again. Bucky let go of Steve’s hair, and stopped pouring water. Steve sputtered with the amount of liquid in his mouth.“ _My associate -”_

_“_ He has a name,” Steve almost yelled.

“ _And you, a heart,”_ Zola said quietly. “ _Hm.”_

_“_ What?!” 

“ _You...you seem oddly calm about all of this new information, Stephen.”_

_“_ What do you mean?!”

“ _Well,”_ Zola cleared his throat. “ _The Ghost just appeared in front of you for the first time with this...metal arm of his. All exposed with tactical gear and all...and well. You seem pretty understanding with the situation that is going on.”_

_“_ I’m in  _shock_  you asshole.”

“ _Oh Stephen. Even in shock, seeing your beloved boyfriend in this_ state _, you should be even just a little scared.”_

_“_ I  _am scared.”_

“ _Not the type of scared I would expect from only an artist.”_

_Shit,_ Steve thought. He stayed quiet. 

“ _There’s something more to you.”_

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“ _And I think that’s why I need to do a little retconning,”_ Zola cleared his throat. “ _Now, Ghost. Can you put our dear friend out of a bit?”_

_“_ Yes,” was all Steve heard from Bucky’s gravely voice, with another tap on a plastic tube, and feeling a small prick on his neck.

*

Steve woke to his throat immensely dry once again. He coughed before starting to talk again. “I’m up again, you  _fuck face,”_  Steve coughed more, “If you want to talk.”

“ _Welcome back,”_ the voice said. “ _So we found out some information, thanks to our own wonderful technical team. Wouldn’t you like to hear it, Steve_?” Steve stayed quiet. “ _Oh, did I already ruin the surprise? Silly me.”_ The PA system as well as the small red dot on the camera clicked off. A door opened from the back of the room. The sound of footsteps and squeaky wheels filled the room once again. “It looks like things just became a little bit more personal, so I thought we’d make your last few hours more face to face,” Zola pulled up the silver tray filled with tools. Steve could feel the Ghost behind his chair. Zola took the taser and switched it on. A henchman from out of the dark brought a metal chair similar to Steve’s from...somewhere. He grabbed the Ghost’s arm, and pushed him down into the chair, cuffing, him and letting him wallow. His head was hanging low, and his hair covered his face.

Zola took the taser and gripped it tightly before zapping the Ghost. His screams echoed the empty room. 

“ _Stop!”_  Steve screamed. 

“We’re just trying to make him more alert. The Ghost should know better,” Zola stated matter of factly.

“His name is  _Bucky_.”

“Who the hell is Bucky,” the Ghost said quietly, almost asking a question. Zola tased the Ghost once more.

“What did we say before? You only talk unless you are spoken to,” Zola repeated. The Ghost winced, waiting to be shocked, but nothing came.  Zola turned his attention back to Steve. “Since it looks like you respond more to our dear friend getting afflicted by others, I’m going to try...a different approach today.”

Zola stated the string of words, and saw Bucky squeeze his eyes shut, and let out a pained huff, before his eyes became wide.

“Where am I?” Bucky looked at his clothes. “What’s going on?  _Why am I here?_ ” Bucky looked up. “Doctor Zola?” Bucky met Steve’s eyes. “Shit-  _Stephen,”_  Bucky tried to get out of the restraints. “What the  _fuck.”_

Zola tightened the grip on the taser, and placed it on Steve’s neck. A sharp scream flowed out of Steve’s mouth, and Bucky cried out. 

“James,” Zola turned around. “James, I don’t think you have ever been here! I mean, you  _have,_ in a way.”

“I need answers,” Bucky stated.

“I do too, but don’t worry. You wont remember a thing. Now,” Zola turned back to the agent. “Steve.”

“That’t not his name, and I think you know that,” Bucky gritted out, and Steve just looked at him with guilt. He finally understood the game that he was playing. 

“I think we need a little refresher course then,” Zola stepped to the side. 

“If I tell you the truth, you won’t hurt him, is that right? He doesn’t get hurt?”

“Correct.”

Steve sighed, and made eye contact with Bucky. “Steven Grant Rogers.”

“What?” Bucky asked softly.

Zola smiled. “Date of birth?”

“July fourth, nineteen eighty-eight,” Steve stated.

“Stop!” Bucky screamed. Steve saw Zola smile.

“Oh, I like this,” Zola said, “I don’t even have to do the heavy lifting. Destroying two people at once - it’s fun.”

“You  _sadistic motherfucker,”_  Steve said, and Zola tased him in return.

“ _No!”_  Bucky cried out. “Doctor Zola, please stop making him do this.”

“Me? I am just merely providing the reinforcement, my dear,” Zola reached out to Bucky’s chin.

“Get your fucking hands  _off of me.”_

_“_ I forgot you had a bite, James. That’s why we chose you,” Zola grinned. 

“You seem to be divulging a lot of information,” Steve noted.

“Well, you wont remember anything when we you’re done with me.”

“The medication,” Bucky said quietly. 

“My God, you’re learning!” Zola laughed and clapped his hands. 

“You’ve been drugging me for how long?”

“A long, long time.”

“So you have been using Bucky as a way to do your dirty work,” Steve stated. “Drugging him so he couldn’t remember.”

“Don’t use my name until I have figured out who the fuck you are,” Bucky said to Steve.

“I’ve already told you,” Steve said quietly.

“ _No.”_

_“_ James.”

“He  _died._  I saw him right before he passed away. I  _held his limp fucking hand when he was in a coma.”_ Steve couldn’t even respond. “He was cold and just... _there_...in the hospital.”

“And I survived.”

“Stop  _using those words!”_  Bucky screamed. Zola flipped the switch and tased Bucky. More screams filled the void of silence, until the metal arm started to bed the arm of the chair. 

“Shall we continue the interrogation or, shall we continue with the trip down memory lane?” Zola asked as he put the taser down.

*


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zola's deception continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel

Zola gave them both a break, which Bucky was thankful for. He kept looking at the man in front of him. His head tilted back on to the chair, throat exposed. Stephen - _Steve? Random man posing as Stephen? -_ tilted his head back, and furrowed his eyebrows at something above Bucky’s head.

“Hey,” Stephen said, “No red dot. The camera isn’t recording.”

“And?”

“Zola’s not watching.”

“Okay...?” Bucky said.

“I can’t believe you’re still that thick.”

“Still? Stephen we’ve known each other for only a few months.”

“How long have you not been taking your meds?”

“Okay, Doctor Turner, I don’t need another scolding.”

“Just answer the question.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Uh,  I think Zola might have given me the inhibitor before I woke up in the diner, but before that, I lost count.”

“When you were in Europe, did you run out?”

“Right before I came back.”

“No refills?”

“Wasn’t my top priority.”

“What did the meds do?”

“Why are you asking so many questions.”

“ _Just answer it,_ ” Stephen gripped the arm rest.

“They made me forget! They made me forget the shit people did to me as a P.O.W. They made me forget pain, the anger, the loneliness...” Bucky’s voice drifted off. “Blood. I remember blood. The medication makes me forget the blood.”

“Okay,” Stephen stated.

“So what are you gonna do with that information? Paint a picture?”

“You still don’t get it, do ya Buck?”

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows.

“Your little catch up time is being cut short, I’m afraid,” Arnim said as he opened the door back up, “We’re gonna play a game.”

“I hope it’s scrabble,” Stephen muttered.

Arnim looked at him with annoyance. “I guess, in a way I only care these nine words,” he tightened his fist and said the Ghost’s trigger words. This time around, the words sounded pointed and Bucky’s vision started to turn black.

︾

The Ghost opened his eyes to another man chained to a chair.

_Attractive? Yes._

_Who was he?_

_He looks...familiar._

Zola came into the Ghost’s view and the Doctor started to unlock the cuffs from his arm.

_What did I do wrong?_

“Bucky,” The blond man said, nervousness creeping up in his voice.

“Don’t listen to him, Ghost,” Zola said.

_Just comply._

The Ghost stood up from the chair, ignoring the pain from where the cuffs that once covered his arms.

Zola stood beside the Ghost with his hand on the mid part of his back. “Listen to me carefully, Ghost. The man is an agent. He is here to remove me from you. Without me you are useless. You are a knight, but without me you are just a mere pawn. This man, set you up in London to fail,” Zola clicked a button in his hand. A picture was displayed of a red haired woman in a business suit. “Shoddy disguise, don’t you think, Steven? You would think your coworkers at the FBI would have a better grasp of undercover work.”

The Ghost saw a flash of anger in the blond’s face.

“He set you up to fail, Ghost. He was the one who caused your punishment,” Zola became quiet as The Ghost’s face started to show anger. “ _Kill him_.”

The Ghost brought back his flesh arm and watched the eyes of the blond man go wide. The man ducked, just fast enough for the Ghost to miss. The Ghost immediately grabbed the man by the back of his shirt, and flung him and his chair across the wear-house floor. The blond man screamed out in agony. The Ghost couldn’t get what he needed to do with the cuffs, and used his metal arm to snap them off.

The slight moment of freedom allowed the blond man to writhe in pain. He flipped him over, and the Ghost stood over the other man.

“ _Kill him_!” Zola yelled as he managed to retreat back to his safe area to not get hurt, and speak over the PA system once again. The Ghost got down on his knees, straddling the blond man. He threw punches, his fists starting to become covered with blood.

“C’mon, _fight back_ ,” The Ghost muttered. The man rolled him over so the Ghost was on the floor.

“You wanna make this a fair fight, huh?” The blond man spat blood. He grabbed the Ghost’s hair and yanked it taught. The Ghost screamed out in pain, and grabbed his neck, putting enough pressure to try and cut off airflow. The other man gripped his hands to try and relieve the ever increasing tightness. Footsteps in the background were scrambling, and murmurs became louder. He didn’t want to be punished. He wanted more jobs, he wanted -

“I ain’t dying’ on you yet, Buck,” the man strained from underneath his grasp.

That _phrase._

He loosened his grip on the other man's neck, as soon as he heard the metal door close shut from behind him. The Ghost let go completely, and walked backwards. The blond man coughed and coughed, before rolling over onto his stomach. Turning back over, the Ghost’s noticed that his eyes were blue.  _Blue, when were they ever blue?_  

“Bucky.”

“Stop!” He screamed.

“Bucky. Zola is gone. He ran.”

“I failed - I failed. I -“

He remembered the phrase, years ago.

High school.

A small kid.

Blond.

_Annoying._

_His name._

*

_“Bucky? Is that you?” Sarah Rogers closed her book when he entered the room. He looked at Mrs. Barnes and she just nodded. Bucky walked inside_.

_“Hi, Mrs. Barnes,” Sarah said lightly._

_Bucky held a “Get Well Soon” balloon and handed it to Steve’s mom._

_“Oh! Steve would have loved that you brought this. She placed her hands over her heart. “Thank you,” she got up from her chair and right it to the bedside table. “Now, I’ve been sitting here for hours. Winifred, would you like to grab a coffee with me?”_

_“Sure,” Bucky’s mom said, quietly._

_“You two can have some time, before you leave.”_

_The two mothers left and all that was in the room was the echo of a semi-abnormal heartbeat, Steve, and himself._

_“Hey, uh, Steve. Long time, no see,” Bucky cleared his throat, “I don’t know what your ma has told you, but I’m moving. And not to New Jersey or some shit like that. We’re moving to Germany.”_

_More silence._

_“Uh, I know you can hear me,” Bucky placed his hands on the bed near Steve’s, “I read online that even if you’re not awake, you can still hear me. So, I don’t know if you can understand me, but. You mean a lot to me...don’t die,” tears started to stream down Bucky’s cheeks, “Don’t die, because I don’t know how I’m gonna be friends with anyone else who annoys the ever living shit out of me,” Bucky chuckled. “Write to me. Message me, something that I know you made it. Don’t die on me yet.”_

︾

Bucky took a deep breath like he was grasping for air. His hand was on his chest and was kneeing on the floor, with one hand stabilizing himself. Steve threw the book that he managed to grab from the other room. Bucky looked at Steve - bloodied bruised and hunched over. He was about to say something, mouth agape when doors started to slam open.

_“FBI! Stand down!”_


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel

Steve was strapped onto the stretcher. The EMT’s pricked his arm to place a running IV, and a oxygen mask over his face, but Steve could only keep his eyes what was happening outside. Agents were running around, lights flashing, and people hurriedly talking into walkie-talkies. Bucky’s head was lowered into the tinted FBI SUV. His arms were cuffed together and his face -

*

“How many fingers am I holding up?” the doctor asked, with his hand in Steve’s vision. 

“Three,” Steve answered.

A light was shined into Steve’s eye. “Don’t follow it,” the doctor ordered. He clicked off the light. “Hm,” the doctor wrote a few notes in the chart. 

“Everything okay?” 

“More than okay, actually. You’re a miracle case, Mr. Rogers. CAT scans show no blunt force trauma, and all X-Rays show,” The doctor flipped the page, “Unremarkable findings,” the doctor snapped the file closed. “You should try out for the Ravens.” 

Steve chuckled as to not wince. “I’m gonna have to talk to my boss about that, before I draw up any contract negotiations.”

The doctor laughed in returned. “Alright, even though everything is good, I’m unfortunately going to have to keep you in this place for a few more days. Visitors are welcome,” the doctor said matter of factly. As if on cue, a knock at the door came about. Nick Fury stepped through the room’s door. 

“Am I interrupting anything?” the director asked. 

The doctor un-clicked his pen, and started to walk out of the room. “We were just finishing up, actually. We will talk soon.”

“Rogers,”

“Fury. Thanks for coming down the hospital,” Steve said, with as much work-place preciseness he could muster. 

“You look like shit,” Fury pointed out, which made Steve laugh. “But, I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re alive, and not in a coma. Again.”

“There weren’t any planes to be taken down this time.” Fury laughed at Steve’s comment. “Where is he?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Fury immediately responded.

Steve let his head fall on his pillow. “Please. Give me some sort of comfort.”

Nick sighed, and scratched his head as he paced the room. “I can say it’s some jail-like area.”

“That’s it?”

“Interrogation.”

“Nick. He didn’t do anything. There was no.  _Free. Will_.” 

Nick looked out the room’s window. “I can’t make a decision about him, until we actually talk to him.”

“Then why jail? There wasn’t any talk of jail time before.”

“That was before he tried to kill you.”

“The Ghost isn’t Bucky,” Steve was trying hard to argue, and made his words pointed. “There’s - there’s a book. A red book - it’ll be the golden ticket to all of this.”

Nick dropped his head and looked at Steve. “These are pity points, I am just going to let you know first, but I like you, Steve. Somehow I like you,” Nick put his hands in his pockets of his jacket. “I’ll have the evidence team take another sweep for something.”

“Thank you.”

“I expect you back in your seat right when you get out of this hospital.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, I have to get back to the office, but,” Nick looked out of the hospital room, “it looks like you have some more visitors coming. I have to get back to the offices to straighten out this mess. See you as soon as you get out of this hospital. The next day - 8am.”

“Understood, sir.”

Nick started to walk out of the room, and before he left completely, he stopped. “I don’t think I said this, but...thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Anytime.”

*

“Steve,” Natasha said as she entered the room, a smile tugging at her face.

“Hi,” Steve smiled back. He watched as Maria, Clint, Sam and even Tony walk in behind Natasha. “Oh, it’s a party.”

“...and we brought the party to you,” Tony replied, to a question that was never asked.

“How are you feeling?” Sam asked. 

“Like shit,” Steve laughed slightly, and winced. 

“What was the verdict, if you don’t mind me asking?” Maria chimed in. 

“Uh, from what I gathered, nothing, other than some muscle sprains in my torso, thus the wincing.” 

“That’s pretty remarkable, considering what I heard happened,” Natasha noted.

“It’s whatever what was put into my body, when I was younger,” Steve said off the cuff. There was no response. “I think that’s classified.”

Tony broke the silence. “They capture the asshole who fucked up your assassin boyfriend?”

“Always so eloquent with you words, Stark,” Natasha immediately said. 

Steve rolled his eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend, Tony. But Zola ran off before our agents arrived.”

“Whatever you say,” Tony just muttered.

*

As the doctor said, it was another few days before Steve was discharged from the hospital. He was brought home to his empty home. He walked into the place and just stared. Dust settled on the kitchen counter, but it was  _his_  kitchen counter. 

Home.

Even if it was empty.

*

The next day, debriefing session went by painstakingly slow.

“I know why I was sent undercover. We don’t have to go over it again.”

“So what do we have to go over?” the psychologist asked.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.”

“Look,” the psychologist sighed, and crossed his legs. “I read the files. You got up close and personal -  _very_  personal if I say so - with him. You bonded - or should I say Stephen Turner - had a relationship with him.” Steve didn’t answer. “It was a lie. The relationship was fake. All constructed to bring the Ghost -”

Steve got up from his chair, and walked out from the session, closing the door a little too forcefully. 

*

Steve sat at his desk chair, a little too tired. He should have taken a few days off. He ignored the chit-chat around his desk, ignored the telephone rings, and ignored the excessive clicking of other people’s keyboard. He wanted to be home covered in blankets with his face in the crook of -

No. 

That was not his life. His life was coffee, shooting back shots on a weekday, catching criminals, and psycho-analyzing every aspect of a person whether they wanted to or not. Steve pushed his chair out from his desk, letting go of his mouse before it shattered into many plastic pieces. Steve walked out of the cubicle and right into the maze of desks. 

Pushing open the door, he found himself walking to Fury’s office.

*

His door was open.

“Rogers, I expected to see you a whole lot sooner.”

“I want to see him,” Steve stated.

“No,” Fury replied.

Steve folded his arms. “Why?”

“Considering he tried to kill you - I don’t think that's the best idea.”

“I told you earlier, there’s a book. He’s not a killer and I’m pretty sure he’s suffering from it.”

“Well, we wouldn’t even know. No book was found.”

Steve sat down, almost defeated. “It was there.”

“And I don’t doubt you. You only lie for a job,” Fury leaned back in the chair and sighed. “Maria might give you a different answer.”

Steve just looked at Fury. “You’re telling me where he -”

“You heard me, Rogers.”

“Understood,” Steve said as he stood up and walked out of the room. He walked back quickly. “Thank you, sir.”

*


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's interrogation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights belong to Marvel.

The next day Steve drove his car to the interrogation site. He put his suit jacket on as we walked to the entrance, holding the jacket together with his hand is the wind whipped around lightly. 

Steve stopped at the check in desk, and flashed his badge. The security guard just looked at him.

“Who are you here to see?” The guard flipped some papers on his clipboard.

“James Barnes.”’  

The guard just looked at him, with confusion. “Are you sure?” 

“Am I sure - yes, I’m sure. Are visiting hours open?”

“Yes, uh. Just sign in here, and wait by the white line,” the security guard left their desk and went over to the gates. Steve saw something right by the empty coffee mug. A pair of car keys. As the guard opened the first of the gates, Steve picked up his badge and swiped the keys, before walking over and following the path. He was lead down through the tunnels and gates letting the buzzer ring against the cold metal walls. The guard finally led him into the cold metal room with one table, and two chairs facing each other. The camera beckoned him, questioning whether or not anyone was actually watching.

Steve started to get antsy, as he waited and waited, until the door buzzer sounded to open. 

It was Bucky in the cuffs, his metal arm was on display, contrasting against the bright orange jumpsuit and unshaven beard. He looked out of place, tired, and annoyed, but Steve could unmistakably knew it was  _him._

The guard cuffed Bucky to the table, and left. Bucky immediately looked down. 

“James,” Steve stated. No response. He leaned forward on the table. “I know you haven’t been talking, but it’s the one thing that can get you reduced time...or - or even just to spare your life.” 

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Please.” 

“How long?” Bucky asked. His voice sounded raw. Steve was confused, and let the air still in between them. Bucky looked at Steve. “How long did you know it was me?” 

Steve leaned back in his chair. “Do you remember that restaurant? D’Abruzzio’s?” No response. “There was that blond surgeon who was gonna propose to his girlfriend.”

Bucky’s lips tightened. “You were the guy. You were the one I thought I recognized.” 

They both were quiet. 

“Is Sarah still alive?”

“No. Uh, she passed a couple years after I graduated high school. My dad not too long after.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Steve muttered. “Winifred?”

“Still alive.”

“Does she -”

“Does she what, Steve? Know about the arm? About the whole killing thing?” Bucky became defensive.

“Sorry, I-”

“When I was in the VA, she came and visited, but then started to forget to come. I didn't hear from her, when I was discharged from the hospital, so I did some research. She has early onset Alzheimer's. She’s in a home somewhere in Maryland.”

“I’m sorry.”

Bucky leaned forward. “Are you, though? Hm?”

“What?”

“How can you be sorry when you just be constantly lying? How can I  _know_  you’re truly sorry if you’re just gonna tell me again you’re some hallucination? How can I  _trust you_? How can I trust the one man I  _loved_  to give his sympathies about my ma, when he pretended to be someone else?  _Twice?”_

Steve was silent for a short amount of time. “Buck-”

“ _Get that Goddamn name out of your mouth.”_

 _“Alright -_ James? The Ghost? What else? Your pick.”

“James.”

“Fine. Glad to settle that fight.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. Steve flicked a button on the bottom of the table. 

“Just so you know, full transparency. I just switched the system for sound. So sound no sound is being recorded, and they cannot know there’s a difference until playback. Privacy,” Steve explained.

“You lied.”

“That’s my job.”

“No,” The word was rough on Bucky’s voice, “You survived. You  _woke up_. I got  _nothing -_ no calls, no e-mails...just nothing.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,  _oh.”_ Bucky bit his lip. “I was so alone. Germany, Afghanistan, that fucking  _prison_  they kept me in, the VA - I could go on. I wanted to die every fucking day until you - or, or your  _fucking alter punk ass cover_ moved in. You felt so much like home, and  _still - still do -_ and you have no idea. Like Brooklyn, like my bed, like an unbroken spoon in my sink...” Bucky took a couple of deep breaths, and tilted his head backwards to keep the tears from rolling down his face. “I fucked up a job because of you - I couldn’t even complete my mission because of you. And at the end  _you were my mission._ You were getting in the way and they - _Zola, my fucking primary -_  wanted  _you dead._  I defied orders, and I might still be brainwashed -”

“We can help,” Steve said cutting Bucky off.

“No, you  _fucking cannot.”_

 _“Yes,_  we can. If we have the red book that they used on you, that’s the crutch. It proves you were a pawn. 

“...and it’s gone.” 

“It has to be somewhere.”

“What can you do about it then? I’m suck in prison for the rest of my life.”

“W-Witness protection,” Steve tried to find the words.

“Stop.”

“ _No,"_ Steve let out a forceful response. "Look, yes I fucked up by not following up with you, but I got caught up in some things. Planning your mother and father’s funerals is a little bit of a hard task, at the time.” Bucky was quiet. 

“I have my fate.”

“And I wont allow it. I have been...” Steve tried to eat his words. “ _I have been attracted_  to you since I was sixteen. I might have had a different name but it was all me. I was still the painter, still the annoying drunk neighbor, still the guy who was attracted to his best friend from Brooklyn,” Steve sighed. “Time has moved on but we,” Steve motioned to the both of them, “but we will always gravitate back towards each other.”

“What are you saying?”

Steve got up from his chair and draped his coat over the camera. Steve moved the metal chair he had been sitting on stood on it to get a better vantage point,  punched the camera, shattering the glass and letting the device just hang down from the wires. He got down and handed the pair of car keys he swiped from the guard when he was walking to Bucky, and took another set to the cuffs to open them. “The Red Book will be your freedom. Find it.”

“What?” 

“You heard me.”

Bucky rubbed his wrists. “They can find me.”

“No. You’re too good.”

Bucky got up from his chair and just stood in his place. 

“Thirty seconds until they come through that door. It’s now or never.”

Bucky walked over to where Steve was now standing.“I will probably never forgive you,” Bucky said, holding Steve’s chin up. Steve wanted to say it. He wanted to say  _I love you,_  but the words stopped in his throat. The last thing Steve saw was Bucky reeling back to punch him, before blacking out.

*


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all rights belong to Marvel.

Someone was snapping mere inches from Steve’s face, trying to wake him up. 

“Earth to Steve? Steve? Come on, buddy, wake up.” A female voice echoed into his consciousness. 

“Fuck,” He swore as he opened his eyes to Maria, Natasha, and Sam looking over him.

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty decided to rise up from the ashes,” Sam said, standing up straight and putting his hands in his pockets.

“Welcome back Steve,” Maria muttered. 

“How many of you are here?” Steve asked. 

“Three,” Natasha stated as she offered a hand to help Steve get off from the floor.

“What happened? How’d you guys get in here?” 

“The prison guards put the place in lockdown, since a guard looked into the room and found you straight up KO’d on the floor,” Sam said, watching Steve brush off the dust from his pants.

“...and why were you here?” Steve loosened his tie.

“Backup,” Natasha stated. 

“Not really helping how you guys got  _into_ the prison after lockdown.”

“We’ve been here the whole time. A couple rooms over.”

“Real shiner Barnes gave you,” Sam said, as he passed Steve’s jacket to him. 

“Do we need an EMT?” Natasha asked. 

“No," Steve sighed. “No, I’ll be fine. This’ll heal in a few hours or so,” Steve touched his eye lightly, wincing slightly at the newly forming bruise. “A cold beer would help.”

“Better if it was an ice pack,” Maria stated.

“Wasn’t gonna use it as one.” 

“I’ll take you out of here. We’ll go to the bar on Main,” Natasha said. 

“But what about the whole," Steve referenced the guards passing back and forth outside of the door, "situation?” 

Maria sighed and looked at Sam. “We got it under control for today. We’ve already got the footage to see what went down. See if we can use to to hear what Barnes was talking about. Maybe he said something in code, that you couldn’t pick up. It’s always good to get an extra set of ears on the case.”

*

Natasha drove up to Steve’s door, a few beers later. He just sat in the car holding his tie and jacket on his lap, with his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, not quite moving. Natasha shifted in her seat to get a better view of Steve. “Hey are you sure you’re okay? You...can always crash on my couch, if you need the company.”

“Thank you, but I really just need to decompress,” Steve said, but it wasn’t quite good enough for Natasha. “Really, I’ll be okay.” 

“I’ll text you in a couple of hours, how about that?”

“Fine. Compromise,” Steve smiled. 

“Compromise,” Natasha said back, like it was something they’ve said before.

*

Steve flipped his lights on and just looked at his place. It felt stale, with the furniture just sitting where they had been for the past few months. 

He dropped his jacket and tie on the kitchen counter and walked right to his bedroom.  He was tired, and plugged in his phone, not setting an alarm for the next day. Steve just wanted to sleep.

He put his head on the pillow, but something hard and rectangular underneath got in the way of becoming comfortable. 

His sketchbook. 

Steve smiled slightly, memories rifling back. He dug it out from underneath his pillow, and started to flip through. Each drawing was a snapshot, not of the subject but of the time for when it was drawn. He turned each page until he got to the one with Bucky he drew some night after not seeing him -  _probably when he was in Europe_. He held up the book, getting a better view of the page, letting the light hit it just enough that he could see - 

Just enough that he could see that there was something underneath. 

He flipped the page. 

A letter. 

It was dated to today’s date. 

_He was here._

_Bucky was here_.

_**Don’t come and find me. Or do. You’re not gonna listen to me anyway.** _

_**Punk.** _

_**\- B.** _

Steve Rogers had lived many lives as many different people, and his time as an FBI agent had reached his conclusion. He quickly got out of his bed, grabbed his wallet, a large duffle bag of clean clothes, and his pre-paid phone. He was going to leave his personal one behind - as he just didn’t want any one to contact him. This was going to be only left between him and Bucky. Steve looked at the photo of his parents, discarding the frame, and went to his notebook to rip out the picture of Bucky. 

He was going to find him. Find the evidence to make sure Bucky was not the one blamed for all that he did. 

Life is made of choices. Steve Rogers made the choice of letting his mom ask for help from Dr. Erskine, to trust him, and to continue to live after all that had been ripped away. He made the choice to let Bucky into his life again by all of these strange circumstances, and the choice to let go the man he loved.

Bucky made his choice to enlist, to try and get better, and has the choice to get better, to try and regain some sense of self, after all of those years being brainwashed. 

Bucky made the choice to write the letter.

It all spiraled from two kids from Brooklyn, deciding to become friends one school day.

Steve Rogers after all those years, made the choice to shut off his apartment lights, lock the door, and leave D.C. for good.

 **Day One.**  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been an absolute labor of love. I want to thank everyone who has read, kudos'd, bookmarked, commented as it made my day. I want to give a special thanks to TinyOtter and birdjay who both have coached me through my writers block which has pretty much stopped me from throwing my computer out of my window multiple times.
> 
> Y'all are the best. 
> 
> I'm over at dreamwidth under the same pen name if you want to read about me complaining about writers block. 
> 
> Finally, yes, if you're curious regarding a continuation - Part 3 is now available to read.
> 
> Thank you for reading. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my two betas birdjay (check out her work!!) and TinyOtter for their help with this story! Constructive Criticism always welcome.


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